The Mystery of the Venus Island Fetish (13 page)

Upon receipt of Vere Griffon's letter Abotomy dashed to the museum. ‘No problem at
all, old chap, with this lot!' the squire declared after hearing Giglione's demands.
‘Admittedly, Tassie tigers might be a bit of a stretch, but Abotomy Park is riddled
with wildlife. Damn parrots and kangaroo-rats everywhere! As for those skulls, Grandfather
Ebenezer was a crack shot, you know, and I've got a fair idea of where the bodies
are,' he said with a
wink. ‘You just take care of the tigers and the Sepik stuff.
And that meteorite—I'll get the rest. By Jove, I know what I'll do,' Abotomy added.
‘We'll have a
battué
. And a digging jamboree! That'll produce such a swag of specimens
it'll knock old Giglione's socks off. Would you care to join us, Director?'

‘Perhaps not,' replied Griffon, struggling to hide his disdain. ‘But I'll think about
who on staff might be useful to you.'

Vere Griffon walked Abotomy out of his office and onto the street. He leaned towards
the squire. ‘This is all very well, old chap,' he whispered, ‘but there are certain,
let us say, impediments, to me getting access to the objects Giglione requires. Curators
need to be got out of the way—that sort of thing. It might require a bit of support
from you—financial as well as moral—at our next board meeting.'

‘You have me intrigued, Director. But it sounds like good sport—and those goats are
worth any effort!'

Abotomy waddled off gaily down College Street. The fingers of his right hand twitched
as if he was already pulling the trigger of his shotgun.

‘Miss Stritchley, can I see my copy of the board papers?'

The board meeting was the most important event of the month for the director—the
occasion on which his powers were tested against those to whom he reported. The board,
and the board alone, could sack him, or order an investigation into any aspect of
the institution he presided over.

In fact, the august position of ‘Member of the Board of Directors of the Sydney Museum'
was a sinecure—a special favour from the premier to those from whom he himself needed
favours. As a result, the board was stacked with people who had no idea at all about
how a museum should be run. Abotomy was a wonderful instance of this. There were
only a few sly reynards, and Griffon fancied that he'd learned how to manage them.

But the greatest gift heaven had bestowed upon the director was his chairman, the
Very Reverend Sir Crispin Jugglers, Anglican Primate of Sydney (and hence all Australia).
He had held the position since the age of dinosaurs; his superannuated clothing hung
on him like funereal garments on a mummer, and his slender black cane, doubtless
once an elegant accoutrement, had long been an indispensible aid to perambulation.

The old gent spent much of each meeting asleep, his shiny bald head nodding to the
rhythm of his breathing. Which was all to the good, because when awake his interventions
were at best inappropriate, at worst dangerous. Vere Griffon still fumed about the
long and tedious discussion that had followed Jugglers' opining what a great shame
it was that public hanging was no longer in fashion. The enthusiasm with which the
board members endorsed the death penalty for almost any offence had made the meeting
run well over time, causing the director to be late for an important appointment.

Vere Griffon read through the agenda. ‘Minutes, Apologies, Update on galleries. Ditto
Science. Ditto collections. Donations, Finances. Request for funding. All very straightforward,'
he announced to himself.

Listed among the donations were the seashells of a Reverend
Bloomingdale, who had
gifted his collection, numbering three thousand specimens, to the institution. These
days such donations were worth almost nothing, and were becoming monotonously common
as the previous generation, among whom shell collecting had been a fad, died off.
Worse, now that Sopwith was gone there was nobody on staff to curate the donated
shells. But since it came from a member of the clergy the director saw it as politic
to accept it.

The next donation was more interesting. A Mr Marchant of Double Bay had bequeathed
his collection of antique coins. There was no numismatist at the institution, so
the museum had no capacity to curate and catalogue old coins; but it would be handy
to have the money. There was a danger that some smart alec might suggest giving it
to the Nicholson Museum at Sydney University. Griffon made a mental note to prevent
this potential occurrence.

When the grandfather clock in the hallway struck two, the board members began to
make their way to their accustomed seats in the grand boardroom. An extravagant bunch
of roses sat in a glorious porcelain vase in the centre of the table.

As usual, first through the door was Cedric Scrutton. Representing the state government,
he was head of the Department of the Arts, which administered the museum. A grey
man with pale blue eyes and a narrow face, Scrutton looked so prematurely hollowed
out with worries and cares that he could already pass for an old man. Always businesslike
and keenly interested in the museum's finances, he was sharp enough to pick up the
smallest of irregularities, and therefore was Griffon's principal adversary.

Next to enter was Chumley Abotomy, the board's youngest member. Matters at Abotomy
Park meant that he was a frequent apology, and this was only the fourth meeting he'd
attended since his appointment. But now that they had formed an alliance over the
Giglione goats he was, the director hoped, someone who could be relied upon. Then
came Professor Harold Atleigh, a marine biologist from the University of Sydney.
He could have been a danger, particularly in the scientific arena, but he was a timid
fellow and Vere Griffon had learned long ago that he'd do almost anything to avoid
causing a fuss.

Mrs Adora Frederick, wife of Sir Clement Frederick, the owner of Mark Frederick's
department store, was doubly useless in Vere Griffon's opinion, for not only did
she know nothing about museums, but in all the years she'd served on the board she'd
never once dipped into her personal wealth to assist a project. Adora was followed
by Sir Hercules Robinson, the war hero, then Jock Higgins, the state architect. Dr
Lawrence Bullock, head of the state agriculture department, was an apology. ‘No loss
there,' Vere Griffon said under his breath as he read the note proclaiming the doctor's
absence. ‘He has about as many brains as the average steer.'

On a bad day, Vere Griffon had taken to fantasising about how, if the board fell
into his power, he'd arraign its members. The setting was a cross between Dante's
Inferno
and the museum's taxidermy workshop. Bumstocks, who would make a suitable
Mephistopheles, was busy administering punishments. Adora Frederick was being racked
with great vigour, until streams of hitherto concealed pound notes flowed from her
clothing. Bullock was being carved up, to be served as Christmas
dinner to the starving
staff, while Higgins was being crushed under a large stone inscribed with the words
‘New Museum, opened 2030—if ever'. But it was Scrutton for whom Griffon's most fearful
imaginings were reserved. He sat chained into a sort of iron throne, with a large
accounts book before him. As a voice intoned the museum's ever-diminishing budgetary
position, a large steel spike penetrated further into his rectum.

The board members were chatting among themselves when the chairman made his way into
the room. They stood as one while Jugglers settled himself painfully into his ornate
carver. Set above a high-collared shirt and black robe, his face bore, Griffon realised,
an astonishing resemblance to the Venus Island Fetish that served as a backdrop.
He must remember to get a photograph of Jugglers sitting below the thing before the
chairman retired—for the wall of the boardroom—and perhaps as a gift to the departing
chairman, who would be sadly missed.

Following his usual practice, Griffon guided Jugglers through the tedious preliminaries.
There was nothing much of note, except for the retirement of Mr Jonas Blockhead,
the museum's printer for thirty-three years.

‘He's retiring to the Cook Islands,' the director explained, ‘where we wish him many
happy years of well-earned leisure. In honour of his long service, we felt it appropriate
to present him with a fob and cufflinks, embossed with the museum crest.'

Scrutton looked up.

‘To be paid for by staff donations, of course,' Griffon added. He couldn't resist
baiting Scrutton.

‘With permission, Your Grace?' Griffon warbled as he shuffled through his papers.
‘I'd like to report on the new gallery.
Progress has been splendid. Many of the principal
models have been completed, and the best of them are the equal of anything I've seen
in the museums of the world. To my great delight I've had a letter from that most
eminent of geologists, Sir Arthur Woodward, recently retired from the British Museum.
You may recall that he's been acting as an advisor, and it now seems possible that
he will travel to officiate at the opening. This would be a great coup for us!'

‘Is this the new evolution gallery?' Abotomy seemed to be confused about precisely
which exhibition was being discussed. Griffon had avoided the word ‘evolution' for
good reason.

‘What's this evolution nonsense? Monkeys and suchlike? Thought Wilberforce knocked
that on the head years ago.' Jugglers was having an ill-timed lucid moment.

‘Your Grace, may I respond simply by pointing out that Mr Charles Darwin lies buried
in Westminster Abbey. The church has forgiven him.'

‘The abbey, eh. Very well.'

The effort seemed to have drained Jugglers, who, to Griffon's relief, was falling
into slumber. He made a mental note to speak to Abotomy about sensitivities surrounding
relations between the museum and the church.

‘Any questions?' Griffon asked, before turning to the next item. ‘With permission,
chair, several members of the public seek to make donations. Seashells from a Reverend
Bloomingdale; a numismatic collection from a Mr Marchant; the offer of a jacket once
worn by Napoleon Bonaparte himself from a Miss Delacour; and a replica bust of Queen
Nefertiti of Egypt from a Dr Ernst Wonderlicht.'

‘Poor Bloomingdale,' mumbled Jugglers, his eyes closed, providing the director with
an opportune moment.

‘With the board's permission, I'd like to move that the donations be accepted, and,
furthermore that Reverend Bloomingdale be elected honorary correspondent to the museum.'

‘Entirely fitting given his lifetime of toils in the realm of malacology,' Adora
Frederick responded. At least she'd got the department right, thought Griffon.

‘Seconded,' said Abotomy, following which Jugglers moved his hand as if in benediction.

‘Thank you, Your Grace. We shall have a letter drawn up with the assistance of Dr
Ponders, our corals expert.' Vere Griffon nodded to Miss Stritchley to make a note.

Griffon may have appeared obsequious, even slightly bored, as he worked his way through
the agenda, but mentally he was
en guard
. The critical item was fast approaching.

‘Next item, gentlemen.' Somehow, Griffon often forgot to acknowledge Adora Frederick
at such moments. ‘We've had several requests for extra expenditure. I realise that
in these straitened times such requests are generally not welcome.' Scrutton's ears
pricked up, and a sour expression crept over his face. Vere Griffon ignored him,
instead looking to the chair for permission to continue. Jugglers' eyes were closed,
but after a few moments his head nodded.

‘Thank you, Your Grace,' Griffon said as he returned to his papers.

The colour intensified in Scrutton's face.

‘Miss Stritchley, could you leave off your minute-taking for
a moment and tell Dr
Doughty that her presence is required?'

Elizabeth Doughty was waiting outside the boardroom door. She was mad keen on fieldwork,
and her plaid trousers, which she was wearing now, were a frequent sight in every
quarry and cavern in the country. She was always scrabbling for funds, and had been
delighted when the director asked her if she would personally petition the board
for funding for her latest venture. This was her great opportunity—her moment to
shine. Best to be no-nonsense and to the point, she told herself, as she strode into
the room.

‘Reverend Jugglers, board members,' she commenced in a stentorian voice, ‘I wish
to travel to Tidore, in the Dutch East Indies, to obtain specimens of two most splendid
minerals recently reported from that island. The intrepid Count Vidua of Genoa, whose
immortal expedition is, as we speak, steaming homewards, has written to me concerning
a strange mineral growth, a kind of phyllosilicate clay, which he encountered in
the caverns of the volcanic isle. From his sketches, I can only assume that the count
has stumbled across a massive Dickite.' She wagged her forefinger back and forth
like a school ma'am. ‘It really is a most exceptional new mineral: the royal purple
crystals are exquisitely shaped, and in this instance are of a most prodigious size.
A
most
unique discovery, Director,' she said looking towards Griffon, ‘and
most
exciting
to the public! Ours could be the first museum to obtain a specimen, which might form
the centrepiece of a
most
popular minerals exhibition. It's an opportunity not to
be missed!'