Golden Relic

by Lindy Cameron

  “It seems he only decided last week,” Sam stated.

  Julia shook her head slowly. “That’s what I find unusual. Lloyd planned his trips meticulously, for weeks in advance. And he was usually excited and voluble, even if he was going somewhere he’d been before. It was always a new adventure but everything had to be perfect.”

  “Lloyd hated surprises,” Maggie stated.

  “Were you and Professor Marsden friends, Julia?” Sam asked.

  “Yes, I suppose we were. Lloyd was a dear old soul but he wasn’t the sort of person you’d invite over for a Sunday barbecue. Well, you would, but he’d never come. But at work, yes, we were more than colleagues. We had lunch once a month and he was always generous with his advice or assistance.”

  “You look puzzled, Sam,” Maggie commented.

  “I’m a little confused about Museum politics.”

  Maggie and Julia burst into laughter.

  “Okay,” Sam acknowledged, “I suppose it’s no different to any other organisation. But it seems odd, given the inter-department rivalry, that there’s so much ‘generous’ collaboration between the curators of those different departments.”

  “There’s actually very little inter-department rivalry,” Maggie said. “It’s usually much more personal than that.”

  “Absolutely,” Julia agreed. “It rarely comes down to Indigenous Cultures versus Technology in Society. It’s more likely, for instance, to be me arguing a new policy, or Maggie battling Daley over some idiotic red tape, or three or four researchers competing for a limited pool of money.”

  “Or Professor Marsden disagreeing with the restructure,” Sam suggested.

  “Exactly. Lloyd felt he’d been personally betrayed. And not because his collection wasn’t to be included but because his whole world, the Museum, was changing,” Julia explained.

  “Despite all that, the Professor was still willing to join the ICOM committee, be liaison for this visiting exhibition, and give you and anyone else advice and assistance.”

  “Lloyd didn’t have a vindictive bone in his body,” Maggie said. “It’s hard to explain but although he felt personally betrayed he didn’t take it personally. Sometimes I think he argued about things simply because he thought someone should. It was his way of ensuring that every conceivable angle of something had been properly thought through.”

  “What about his rivalry with Haddon Gould?” Sam asked.

  “That stupid posturing peacock!” Julia exclaimed. “Excuse me, but any ‘rivalry’ between those two was all in Haddon’s otherwise unimaginative little mind. Although I suspect his antagonism towards Lloyd actually had nothing to with the Museum, at least not originally.”

  “Do you have any idea what caused it?”

  “No, I just got the impression it wasn’t professional jealousy, that it was really personal.”

  “Professor Marsden apparently had quite a disagreement with Enrico Vasquez, from the touring exhibition, about the repatriation of cultural artefacts,” Sam said. “Was he genuinely against the idea or was that something else to argue about just for the sake of it?”

  “Oh no, he was dead against it,” Maggie stated, “depending on the circumstances. He considered his own collection to be unreturnable, not because he was selfish so much but because who the hell would he return it to? The Incas? The Aztecs? He would mount the same argument in defence of say ancient Egyptian artefacts. ‘That culture is dead and gone’, he would say.”

  “On the other hand,” Julia said, “he acknowledged without hesitation that the Museum’s collection of indigenous artefacts come from a people as old as the human race itself but also belongs to a ‘living’ culture. And this was an attitude he held even before he discovered, only 10 years ago, that his great-grandmother was a Koori.”

  “So he was in favour of returning ‘Aboriginal’ cultural property?” Sam asked.

  “Oh yes. In fact since discovering his own heritage he also took an active, though limited, role in the curatorial assistance that we offer Aboriginal cultural centres around the state. On occasion this included the management of cultural material we have on loan to those centres.”

  “On loan?” Sam said. She leant back so the waitress could place her breakfast on the table and thanked her before continuing. “So you don’t actually give things back?”

  “Yes we do,” Julia stated. “It’s our policy to return all human remains and secret/sacred objects on request. Once we verify that it’s being returned to the right people it is repatriated permanently. We then offer that community our expertise should they want any further work or documentation done on those remains or objects. Some do, some don’t. Appropriate and respectful management of secret/sacred material is one of our highest priorities. But we also have a huge collection of other cultural material that we lend to Aboriginal centres or museums.”

  “Mind you,” Maggie added, “this is a recent innovation. Our Museum has long been renowned for its collections relating to indigenous Australians but, as is the case with institutions the world over, those human remains, sacred objects and artefacts were acquired and donated by white anthropologists and collectors. It’s only been in the last 15 years that Aboriginal people have had an active role in the Museum and a say in the proper and respectful management of the collections.”

  “And believe it or not,” Julia added, “the bulk of that ‘renowned’ collection came from anthropological work carried out in northern and central Australia. Until the Museum began employing Koori staff in the early eighties there had been very little research of our own Victorian Aboriginal culture.”

  “That’s not so odd, when you think about,” Sam said. “How often would any of us take a sightseeing tour of Melbourne, unless we were showing our city off to visiting friends. It’s like when it’s right under your nose it’s not exotic or worth investigating.”

  “It’s hardly the same thing,” Julia stated, taking offence. “The history of this city and state is well documented, yet we barely rate a mention.”

  “I’m not disputing that, Julia, and I certainly didn’t mean to be insulting. But it’s a fact that the white settlement of Melbourne was chronicled by white people who were completely ignorant and uncaring of the impact they had on your ancestors. And when they recorded their daily lives, those settlers were concerned with their own stories, hardships and achievements - not yours. It was always up to you to be the ones to tell your own story - no one else could do it justice. It may have taken over 160 years to be heard, but in the last 15 or so you’ve gone from being the ‘subjects’ of a museum collection to being the researchers, caretakers and managers of your own culture and history. That has to be pretty unique in the world.”

  “The Museum is a leader in how it works with the indigenous community,” Maggie stated.

  “You’re quite right,” Julia smiled. “I’m sorry I snapped, Sam, but I am wary of people’s attitudes so I tend to bite when perhaps I shouldn’t.”

  “Please don’t apologise, Julia. I’d be doing a hell of a lot snapping if I were you,” Sam stated. “Speaking of change though, wasn’t there a special ceremony before work on the new Museum began? I seem to remember the Premier being presented with something that symbolised the collaboration of the Koori community and the Government.”

  Julia was genuinely surprised. “Yes, it was a cleansing of the site for the Museum’s Aboriginal Centre with smoking fires, music and dancing. The Wurundjeri people, the traditional land-owners of Melbourne, organised it and the Elders presented the Premier with a Message Stick and invited him and the Museum President to share water. You’ve got an amazing memory, Sam, for something that doesn’t directly concern you. That was nearly two years ago.”

  Sam shrugged. “I am blessed, though it often feels like a curse, with a photographic memory. Consequently I have a very eclectic store of info up here,” she explained, tapping her head.

  “That must be very useful in your line of work,” Maggie commented.


  “It is, but you’ve no idea the amount of litter I pick up along the way. For instance a completely useless fact, that I’ve been carrying around for 10 years, is that a petty crook I arrested for burglary had a girlfriend called Marge who collected matchbooks. Now, I never met Marge, never saw her collection and matchbooks are not an unusual thing to collect, so why do I need to remember that; or the entire contents of a bookie’s briefcase that I inspected 1987?”

  “What was in it?” Maggie asked intrigued.

  “A pack of Marlboro, a bottle of Brut aftershave, an address book, three nail clippers, a return plane ticket to Brisbane, a postcard from his wife Shirley in Surfer’s Paradise, $1837 in cash, an unregistered Colt .45 and 13 bullets.”

  “Good heavens, it’s a wonder you can remember ordinary things, like where you live, with all that clutter in your brain,” Maggie laughed, although she seemed to be distracted by something going on behind Sam. “Good morning Phineas,” she said.

  Sam suppressed an urge to hide under her chair as Marcus Bridger stepped up to their table.

  “Good morning Margaret,” he replied pointedly, “Detective Diamond, and���”

  “Julia Cooper,” Julia replied, offering her hand.

  Sam noticed that Julia seemed to be fighting to control any outward signs of the same unbridled lust that she had experienced towards Marcus Bridger. Oddly enough, Sam was relieved she wasn’t alone in this regard, although now she worried it might be a virus.

  “May I join you? There is something I would like to ask Detective Diamond,” Bridger said.

  “Sit, Marcus,” Maggie commanded waving at the empty chair.

  Bridger did just that and turned immediately to face Sam. “This may seem an unusual request Detective, and I apologise for being so forward, but would you do me the honour of being my guest at a formal dinner we are hosting this evening?”

  “Your guest?” Sam repeated, mostly because it was all she could manage.

  “Yes. If it is not appropriate, given the circumstances, I understand but I don’t know anyone in Melbourne and to be perfectly honest I am tired of attending such functions alone.”

  “Um, I don’t know���” Sam began.

  “She’d love to,” Maggie interrupted. “Don’t look at me like that, Sam. Half the Museum staff are going to be there, so you can pretend it’s work related if you want to. Besides your offsider will be there as my escort for the night, so you may as well join us.”

  Bridger gave Maggie a look that said he could manage his own business thank you very much; and Sam gave her a look that said mind your own business.

  “What?” Maggie asked looking from one to the other.

  “I would love to, Dr Bridger,” Sam finally said.

  “Splendid,” Bridger said. “If you give me your address I’ll pick you up at 6 pm.”

  Sam wrote her address and home phone number on the back of one of her business cards, all the while thinking how stupid it was to pretend this was work-related, or even a vaguely sensible thing to do in the middle of an investigation. You can’t date a possible suspect Sam, she told herself, even if you’re the only one who suspects him. She handed him the card.

  “My god,” Julia exclaimed after Bridger left the table. “What a gorgeous specimen that was.”

  “Now girls, control yourselves,” Maggie teased. “I will tell you now, before either of you get too charmed by his er, attributes, that Marcus Bridger is as arrogant as an English Setter and not nearly as clever or faithful.”

  “Who cares!” Julia stated. “If you can’t make the date for any reason Sam, give me a call.”

  “It’s not a date,” Sam emphasised. “Maggie, did you say that Rivers is escorting you tonight?”

  “Not in so many words, but yes, the delicious young Hercules is my date for the night.”

  Trees, Sam thought with delight. She wound down her window to let the smell of wattle and eucalypts flow through Maggie’s hire car as they turned off Eltham’s unimaginatively named Main Road. “I’d forgotten how beautiful it is out here,” she said.

  Eltham, one of Melbourne’s outer suburbs was surrounded by inner and outer-outer ‘suburbia’ but had managed to retain its natural beauty. Artists had settled in the area in the 1920s and 30s to escape the growing city and to capture on canvas the unique light and colours of the Australian bush landscape. Artists, bohemians and hippies had been followed by others seeking an alternative or country lifestyle, who built here because of the environment and who still fought to keep housing developers or rampant construction at bay.

  “I just love the peace and quiet,” Maggie agreed. “It’s hard to believe we’re only 20 kilometres from the city centre and that there are actually houses somewhere in amongst all these trees.” She made a right turn onto a dirt road, then another onto a narrow, deeply rutted track. Half a kilometre later, she stopped and waited while Sam opened a gate on which hung a rusty metal sign bearing the number four.

  Sam closed the gate again after Maggie had driven through, and then followed on foot around a sharp bend and into a small clearing where a mud brick cottage sat looking like it had literally grown out of the surrounding bush. Maggie was already out of the car and waiting patiently by the front door which was engraved with the name ‘Llareggub’.

  “This is ridiculous,” Maggie said, slipping the key in the lock, “I’ve been here a hundred times but I feel like we’ve just discovered a long lost tomb.”

  The door opened into a confined space lined with shoes and crowded by coats on a wall rack. Maggie picked up a torch from a shelf, whacked it on the wall to get it working and then opened the interior door. “Hang on while I brighten things up a bit,” she suggested, using the dying torch to pick her way across the dark room. “What are we looking for exactly?”

  “Well, the note said ‘return to the finder from the words of the bard’,” Sam reminded her, “so I’d say we’re looking for a copy of Shakespeare. That shouldn’t be too hard.”

  Sam heard the sound of a match being struck, then slowly the room seemed to come alive, with the furniture apparently moving as the light grew around her, beginning with a dim flicker along the walls and ending with a flash above her head.

  “Oops, sorry,” Maggie said. “I think I turned it up too high.”

  “Gas lighting?” Sam said, inspecting the lamp on the wall nearest her.

  “Oh yes, Lloyd’s got all the mod cons.”

  “Oh my god,” Sam breathed, facing the room. “We could be here for weeks. This isn’t a tomb, it’s the long lost repository of some legendary bibliophile.” She stared open-mouthed at thousands of books which were crammed into the shelves that lined the room and overflowed into piles that covered the floor.

  The room was large but even without the books would have been crowded. A huge desk, filing cabinet, a small table with an old Remington typewriter, and a large free-standing globe were arranged in a semi-circle in front of a small bay window with drawn curtains. A few steps away, two raggedy armchairs, a couch and a coffee table were set up in front of a huge open fireplace. Between them and where Sam was still standing near the door was a cedar dinning table with eight chairs and, against the wall behind them, an antique dresser and a wardrobe.

  “I’m afraid to ask how many rooms there are,” Sam said.

  “This one, two bedrooms, a bathroom, an enclosed veranda out the back, and the kitchen through there,” Maggie pointed to a door behind her. “But the books are mostly in here.”

  “Thank heaven for small mercies,” Sam stated. “Pick your spot, Maggie. I’ll start here,” she added, taking a seat at the dining table to go through the books that covered it.

  “You know, the more I think about your smuggling theory, Sam,” Maggie said, sitting down at the desk, “the more far-fetched it seems.”

  “I know it’s far fetched. My so-called clue was icing sugar and the search at the airport was an embarrassing waste of time but the coincidences are just too���”
/>
  “Coincidental?” Maggie suggested.

  “Yes,” Sam agreed testily. “But the timing of the Exhibition and the influx of cocaine in Melbourne and those other cities has to be more than coincidence.”

  “Perhaps,” Maggie agreed, rifling through the desk drawers, “but you keep adding two and two together and then try to justify the fact that your answer keeps coming out at five.”

  “That’s because I haven’t found the missing ‘one’ yet,” Sam said defensively.

  “Think about it, Sam. You already knew about the cocaine, then you found a suspicious substance that turned out to be innocent and you carried out a search that found nothing yet you’re still trying to fit the facts of these two unrelated cases together. Are you sure you’re not trying to make too much out of a simple murder?” Maggie rolled her chair across to the nearest bookshelf and began checking the titles on the spines.

  “I don’t think so, besides a ‘simple’ murder is a very rare thing,” Sam said. “Bingo! A copy of Macbeth,” she exclaimed. She flicked through the pages, shook the book, started from the beginning again to look more carefully and found nothing.

  “What I mean, Sam,” Maggie said resuming the conversation, “is that, logically, there is no reason to believe that Marcus’s show has anything to do with smuggling. If you forget the cocaine thing and take the investigation of the itinerary in a different direction you’d probably find it also coincides with archaeological symposiums, touring rock concerts or strange weather patterns.”

  “Or hit and run accidents, gallery fires, museum robberies and hijackings,” Sam reminded her.

  “Exactly. Odd things indeed, but they happen all the time. I’m sure young Hercules could search the internet and match the itinerary with mysterious crop circles or alien abductions.”

  Sam laughed. “I get your point, Maggie. But if Professor Marsden’s death is so simple why did he ask you to check the odyssey of Ouroboros and, more to the point, why are we here?” Sam moved over to tackle the books on the coffee table and the floor around the couch.