Free The Mystery of the Venus Island Fetish by Tim Flannery, Dido Butterworth

As he walked
away, it occurred to him that it might not be such a bad thing to have Uncle Sangoma
visit Sydney. He could see civilisation, and he might take some useful ideas back
to the islands. Archie would write to him via the mission, asking for a dance troupe.
He would protect them, and make sure the islanders had a damn fine time of it during
their stay.
    Archie headed straight to Dithers’ office. The mammalogist had dozens of flying-fox
skulls arrayed on the desk in front of him, and was evidently considering a knotty
problem concerning their classification. ‘Have you seen Beatrice today, Courtenay?’
Archie asked.
    ‘No. I heard she’s on sick leave. But, as I said, give her time, Archie. You’ll do
more harm than good chasing her around before she’s ready.’
    ‘But I don’t understand it, Dithers. I get the feeling she abhors me. Do you think
she’s found someone else?’
    ‘I don’t think so, old chap,’ Dithers said, his mind on his studies. ‘Mordant’s been
giving her a bit of company lately, but—’
    ‘Mordant! My God! Surely not!’ Archie exclaimed. ‘I mean to say—she wouldn’t stoop
that low. No, not Mordant, Courtenay? That nasty, mediocre little ponce!’
    Dithers immediately regretted his injudicious words. He did not for a moment think
there was anything between Beatrice and Giles.
    ‘Archie, listen to me. I’m certain that Beatrice has waited for you. Just give it
time, man. If you go off half-cocked now you’ll lose all chance of winning her over.’
    Archie felt as if he were about to explode, a feeling made worse by the knowledge,
deep down, that Dithers was right. He must be patient. With a supreme effort, he
told himself that his thoughts would be best directed elsewhere. And, heaven knew,
he had enough distractions to keep him occupied.
    As he left Dithers’ office, Archie looked back. The mammal department was a scene
of chaos. Dithers had created a niche in one corner by lining up his specimen cabinets.
Behind them were mountains of papers on the floor and desk. Laboratory benches and
cabinets occupied the remaining space, but they were covered with objects. Hippo
skulls tangled with stuffed tree-kangaroos, and hyena jaws jousted with babirusa
tusks in a great confabulation of stuffed, pickled and skeletonised specimens. How
Dithers ever found anything—or indeed got anything done—was a mystery.
    Archie decided to avoid his own tiny office and instead walked towards the ‘old men’s
room’, a space in the museum’s attic reserved for retired curators who wished to
continue with their studies. The corridor which gave access to it passed by most
of the curators’ offices. A few of the doors were open. He passed Elizabeth Doughty
at her desk. She was reading a journal article, her face rigid with concentration.
A second desk in the same room was occupied by the registrar of minerals, a thin,
feeble-looking type who was vacantly picking his nose. The office of the curator
of jellyfish, Dr Abraham Trembley, was so enveloped in darkness that Archie couldn’t
make out what was going on. The only evidence of life came from a lamp, barely visible
behind a stack of filing cabinets. Then came Clive Wrigley’s den. Archie flinched
as he peered in. The place was crammed with terrariums, in each of which lurked enormous,
hairy spiders. Wrigley himself stood before a terrarium. Its lid was open. On the
back of the curator’s hand sat a fat, black funnelweb spider. Archie shivered and
hurried on.
    The old men’s room was tiny, and barely high enough to stand up in without knocking
your head on the exposed wooden beams of the roof. Half-a-dozen desks had been assembled
there for the use of the retired curators, who worked in a voluntary capacity. As
Archie anticipated, Sopwith was in residence. The old curator was bent over his desk,
upon which he had arranged several dozen ginger-spotted cowrie shells in neat rows.
When he lifted his eyes, his face brightened. Visitors