Journey to the River Sea

But they had a lovely time. It had rained earlier, but now a fresh breeze blew from the river and wherever they looked there was something to interest them: a howler monkey sitting on a telegraph pole outside the post office; a cluster of brilliant yellow butterflies drinking from the water troughs put out for the horses, a pint-sized child lugging a mule on a rope. Maia bought some postcards to send to her friends, and asked Miss Minton if she would like one to send to her sister, but Miss Minton said her sister thought postcards were vulgar so she could do without.

‘I think we might have a look in the museum,’ she said. ‘It’s probably free. Perhaps I could offer them my necklace.’

‘What necklace is that?’ said Maia, surprised. She had never seen her governess wearing jewellery.

‘It is made up of all the milk teeth of my sister’s children. She gave it to me as a farewell present. She has six children so there are a lot of teeth,’ said Miss Minton in an expressionless voice.

The museum was behind the customs house, not far from the river and the docks. It was a yellow building with a domed roof and the words Museum of Natural History painted on the door. Inside, it was a marvellous jumble of stuffed animals in glass cases, skeletons hanging from wires, drawers full of rocks and insects and feathers. There were three rooms downstairs and two more upstairs which housed tools and carvings made by Indians from all over Amazonia.

Maia and Miss Minton wandered about happily. Some of the stuffed animals were unusual; a manatee, a kind of sea cow, which looked like a great grey potato with little bumps and knobs on its skin, and a forest tarsola. But some were just ordinary animals that people had brought in from the jungle. And in one glass case there was a stuffed Pekinese labelled: Billy: the faithful friend of Mrs Arthur Winterbotham.

Museums do not usually show stuffed lapdogs, but the curator was an Englishman with a kind heart and Mrs Winterbotham, who had raised a lot of money for the museum, had really loved her dog.

Maia was admiring a shrunken head, when she heard a small exclamation and turned to find that Miss Minton was standing in front of a display case showing specimens of dried plants. The plants did not seem to be particularly exciting, but Miss Minton was so absorbed that Maia came over to stand beside her.

‘The Bernard Taverner Collection of Medicinal Plants from the Tajupi Valley,’ she read.

The plants were carefully labelled with their names and what they were used for. A few Maia had heard of – quinine bark to treat malaria, morning glory seeds to bring on sleep – but most were strange to her.

‘This is one of the most important collections in the museum,’ said a voice behind them, and they found that Professor Glastonberry, the curator, had come out of his office. ‘He was a fine naturalist, Taverner.’

The professor was a big, portly man with a fringe of white hair framing a pink skull, very blue eyes and an old linen jacket from which a handkerchief protruded. The handkerchief did not have much to do with the professor’s nose; it was used to mop up dye or formalin, wrap up a delicate specimen, or wedge a rickety stand. He had been putting together the skeleton of a giant sloth and was still carrying one of its claws in his hand.

‘When did Mr Taverner present the collection?’ asked Miss Minton.

‘Five years ago when he came back from the Tajupi. But he often brought things in – that banded armadillo came from Taverner. He never killed more than he needed though; once he had a specimen, he left the rest alone.’

He sighed, remembering the man who had been his friend. Then the door was flung open, loud footsteps sounded on the wooden floor, and they found Mr Trapwood and Mr Low making their way towards them.

‘Oh no, not the crows again,’ whispered Maia, and was frowned into silence by Miss Minton, who pulled her away from the display case and led her out of sight behind the manatee.

‘Professor Glastonberry?’ asked Mr Trapwood, wiping his face. Black suits are not the best things to wear in the tropics and he was sweating heavily.

The professor nodded.

‘We understand that you knew Bernard Taverner? That he gave a collection to the museum?’

The professor nodded again. ‘Medicinal herbs, very interesting; over there.’

The crows looked disappointed; they had probably expected stuffed jaguars and enormous throwing spears.

‘We would like to ask you some questions about Mr Taverner,’ said Mr Trapwood. ‘Trapwood and Low: Private Investigators.’ He took a card out of his pocket and handed it to the professor.

The professor looked at it and gave it back. ‘I’m afraid I’m very busy.’

‘It won’t take long. We know that Bernard Taverner died about four months ago. What we want to know is the whereabouts of Taverner’s son.’