The Portrait of Molly Dean

by Katherine Kovacic

  ‘What I mean is,’ he rubbed his hands across her back, ‘we need a plan for you. Otherwise you’ll only be offered kitchen tips or writing up society news for Table Talk.’

  Molly’s felt herself soften. ‘All I want to do is write. Every day. Just like you get to paint every day.’

  ‘And you will, darling girl, you will. But one step at a time, okay?’

  They sat together on the chaise as the light slowly faded from the studio, the shadows lengthening across the paint-splattered floorboards and creeping into corners, forming pools of night.

  Finally, Molly stirred and nodded toward the easel. ‘Show me then.’

  Colin pressed a hand to his high forehead and smoothed back his hair. It was a fairly innocuous gesture, but one that Molly knew was a sign of anxiety. ‘I haven’t got the shape of your hands quite right yet,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t worry! I know it’s not finished!’ She held out her hand and pulled him to his feet. ‘Besides, after the last painting you did of me, what could possibly shock me?’

  Colin laughed. ‘Virtually no one knows you were the model for Sleep.’

  ‘Good. It may be a highly praised and quite brilliant painting, but I can’t flout the rules like one of your artist or actor friends. Why, I’m apparently already risking my reputation as a teacher by associating with the bohemian set! If anyone knew I’d posed nude …’

  Colin stood back as Molly moved behind the easel, and she knew he was watching to gauge her initial reaction to the portrait. Unsure of what she would see, Molly prepared to arrange her features into something conveying warm appreciation. But there was no need. What she beheld made her eyes widen and her lips slowly part, softening her entire face into an expression of both delight and admiration.

  ‘I don’t look like that.’ Molly glanced quickly between Colin and the painting.

  ‘I told you it’s not finished yet.’

  ‘No, I mean … You made me look … You’ve been rather kind, haven’t you? Artistic licence?’

  ‘Oh Molly, no. You’re incredible! Beautiful and smart, and I’ve just tried to catch it all and put it there in your face, where I see it all the time.’

  Molly pressed her lips together.

  ‘I promise you, this is what the world sees.’ Colin went and stood behind Molly and together they looked at her portrait. ‘They see the amazing, stunning, clever, funny Molly Dean at the start of her career!’

  Molly leaned back into him and he rested his chin on her head. ‘I hope the world is interested in Molly Dean and her career as an author and not as a boring school teacher who was lucky enough to sit for a famous artist.’

  ‘You’ll get there darling, you just need to be patient and keep slogging away.’ Colin didn’t bring up the subject of sticking with her teaching job, but it hung in the air between them. Instead he gave Molly a squeeze and forced a lighter note into his voice. ‘I almost forgot, Molly dear. A letter arrived for you today. All very domestic, you receiving post here.’

  Molly slapped his shoulder playfully with the back of her hand. ‘You know that’s only so that my mother doesn’t get her clutches on things. Besides, I never realised you saw me as the domestic type.’

  ‘Darling, I can’t even begin to imagine you in command of a kitchen. And if you ever brandish a knife, it will be because you’re posing as Judith. I’m sure you could think of a suitable candidate for Holofernes.’ He gave her a wry smile. ‘Letter’s on the hall table.’

  1999

  I drop the phone into its cradle on the desk and stare at it. Rob’s response to the irate underbidder is really worrying: I can’t remember ever seeing him with a single hair of his silver quiff out of place over a pissed-off client. I’m sure fake IDs aren’t uncommon, they just don’t get noticed. After all, if the person on the phone had the winning bid and the account was settled – cash or bank transfer, so the buyer’s identity remains hidden from the auction house – there’d be no questions asked. It’s still a fair and square purchase. The problem this time is we have an aggressive personality hiding behind a false identity. And why use a fake name to try to buy a painting worth no more than ten grand? It doesn’t make sense.

  After a few more minutes trying to figure out this person’s angle, I decide to give it a rest and focus on digging up more details about Molly Dean’s life, other than the fact she was bludgeoned to death in an Elwood laneway. While the newspaper reports contain plenty of detail, I think it’s time to go to the Public Records Office and request the coronial and police files relating to Molly’s murder. I’ve never requested this sort of thing before, only old paper files relating to the National Gallery of Victoria’s collection and the occasional birth, death, marriage or immigration record for an artist. I grab my bag, laptop and a notebook, but then have to spend five minutes looking for my keys. After locating them in my pocket, I give Hogarth a quick pat. ‘I’ll try not to be too long, buddy.’

  He sighs heavily and fixes me with a sorrowful stare.

  ‘Promise.’

  With a groan, Hogarth flops over onto one side as I head out the front door.

  ***

  The drive into town takes me past Albert Park Lake and around the edge of the city, and for once traffic is flowing smoothly. Twenty minutes later, I pull into a carpark not far from the Public Records reading room. When I shuffle through the revolving door, I find the place half empty, and my footsteps echo strangely on the lino as I make my way to the lift. Several storeys later, I head down an institutional corridor with worn synthetic carpet and fluorescent lights placed slightly too far apart for good illumination. Automatic doors hesitate before parting, and then I step into the reading room. I’ve missed the deadline for the day’s first round of file retrievals, but it doesn’t matter because I need to talk to the archivist about exactly which documents I should be requesting. I look around to see if there are any staff members I know and spot a familiar face at the information desk. I can’t remember his name, but I do recall his thinning grey hair, RSL tie and bifocals. This guy is how I imagine librarians should be. None of your videos or audiobooks for him, just shelves, stacks and the heady smell of old paper and ink. I start over and once I’m close enough, I can see his name on the precisely aligned badge pinned to the pocket of his tweed jacket.

  ‘Hello, Ian. I don’t know if you remember me, it’s been a while.’ I tuck some stray bits of hair behind my ear.

  ‘Miss Clayton. It has been some time since your last visit, I hope you’ve been well?’ It’s not a rhetorical question. He really is an old-fashioned gentleman.

  ‘Oh, yes, fine thanks.’ I smile. ‘How have you been?’

  ‘I can’t complain, although these days the family historians are trying my patience. I hope you’ve brought me something more interesting than a desperate search for a convict ancestor. He gestures to a chair on my side of the desk and, as I sit down, squares up the notepad in front of him and clicks his pen, ready to go.

  ‘I’m investigating a murder.’ I lift a placatory hand before he can interrupt. ‘But this one happened in 1930.’

  ‘What documents are you after?’ The pen is still hovering in midair and the crease between his eyebrows has deepened.

  ‘Well, anything really. The coroner’s report – medical examination and inquest – police files, any court documents, basically whatever we can find, please.’

  Ian has been making notes while I talk, and studies his list for a moment. ‘The police and coronial records will be here with us, but if there was a criminal trial the documents may be sealed as the case is less than seventy-five years old. There’ll be no problem with any of the rest of it, though. What was the name and date of death?’

  ‘Mary Winifred Dean, of Elwood. Date of death: 21 November 1930.’ Saying her name out loud gives me a bit of a chill. I wonder if I’m getting too carried away.
>
  ‘Hmmm.’ Ian makes another note. ‘Was it a long investigation and trial?’

  ‘From what I’ve read in the newspapers, the coronial inquest concluded in late January 1931 and that was it. I’ve no idea if the investigation continued or not.’

  Ian regards me across the desk, eyes made abnormally large and bright by the refraction of his lenses. ‘No trial?’ Eyebrows rise above the glasses.

  ‘No trial.’

  He stares at me a moment longer before turning back to his computer, the clatter of his typing loud over the soft background sounds of the reading room.

  Despite the fact only a handful of people are here today, there is a constant thrum, the strange mix of muted voices, rustling paper and occasional electronic buzzes and beeps that is the anthem of libraries. From an open door, I can hear the hum-clack of a photocopier and the occasional distinctive accelerating whir of a microfiche spool.

  As Ian is peering at his screen and noting down file numbers, I start to feel impatient. I want to know what’s in those files. What wasn’t reported in the papers? I sit up straighter. Why, after all the sensationalism of the murder, did the whole thing just fade away? Surely there should have been more of an outcry, more calls to find the violent offender and make the streets safe again? Given that the Jazz Age was taking Melbourne by storm, I’d even expect some sort of opinion piece on the falling standards of the Modern Woman, out alone at night. But I’d seen nothing in all the articles I’d read on the case. Once the coroner’s verdict was in, the whole thing just dried up.

  I realise I’ve balled my hands into tight fists and I force myself to slowly relax and uncurl my fingers. This was getting ridiculous. All I need to do is add a little colour to the Molly Dean story to give the painting a bit of extra cachet and bump the price. But it bothers me that all this poor girl’s life amounted to was a scandalous footnote in an artist’s biography. I want to know the real Molly Dean, as much as is possible from newspapers and the Public Records Office anyway. She deserves that much.

  The sound of ripping breaks into my thoughts. Ian is tearing off a request form and I see he has listed several items for retrieval.

  ‘Do you have your user ID number with you? I just need to fill that in and then you’re set.’

  I rummage in the side pocket of my bag, the place where I keep all the coupons, cards and random things I may need, but not so often I want to jam them into my purse. I flip through a borrower’s card for the State Library, membership cards for the National Gallery of Victoria and National Trust, and a loyalty card for some shop I don’t remember, before I find the right user card. I hand it over and Ian adds the details to the top of his sheet. A glance at the large clock over his shoulder tells me it’s not quite 1 p.m., which means a long wait until the next file retrieval time at 2.30. I sigh. There’s a cafe downstairs, but nowhere in this part of town that makes a decent coffee, and the thought of bad coffee is worse than no coffee at all.

  Ian gives me a conspiratorial wink. ‘It’s highly irregular, but as I’m about to go on my lunch break, it’s entirely feasible for me to just pop into the stacks and see what I can find for you right now. Of course,’ he holds up an admonishing finger, ‘I can see the inquest file is in cold storage, so that’s a special request. I’ve logged it for you, but they won’t pull those documents until tomorrow. However I can get you started with the rest. Strike while the iron’s hot and all that.’

  I can see he’s rather fired up at the prospect of delving into the records of an unsolved murder. This is probably the most exciting thing that’s happened for years.

  ‘Would you really be able to do that, Ian? Thanks.’

  ‘This is a one-off, mind. Can’t buck the system for a mere whim.’ He injects a note of authority into his tone.

  ‘Of course, of course. I’d never dream of ignoring protocol.’

  ‘Shan’t be long then.’ He flips a sign onto his desk that reads, Currently unattended. Please see staff at main desk. It seems an obvious statement, but I’ve no doubt some people would stand in front of an empty desk for ages and then complain because nobody helped them.

  ‘Is it okay if I see if one of the private research rooms is free? I’ll wait for you there.’

  ‘You should be able to take your pick today.’ List in hand, Ian heads off through the Staff Only door.

  I find an empty room, empty being the operative word. Three of the walls are blank white while the fourth is glass, so the archivists can make sure you’re not breaking any rules or stealing documents. The table is grey laminate and the chair is designed to prevent the user from settling in for a long stretch. A fluorescent light overhead bathes me in its unforgiving glare while it buzzes quietly to itself. Sitting down, I set my things up on the table, ready for action. It doesn’t take long. I put out my notebook and pencil (no pens allowed), camera, for if I want to photograph documents, and laptop. I fire up the computer just in case I need to refer to any of the notes I’ve already made, then toy with the idea of playing solitaire while I wait. But I want to look professional when Ian returns.

  What’s taking so long, I wonder, then realise it’s been only ten minutes since Ian left. I fiddle with my stuff a bit, realign my pencil and notebook, and have just decided to start ditching old files on the laptop when I see Ian crossing the main reading room. His wispy hair is no longer military-neat, but sticks out behind one ear. Even as I notice, he lifts a hand and smooths the strands back into place. With that gesture I realise his hands are empty; he hasn’t been able to get the files after all. Perhaps he ran into his boss out the back and ended up having a discussion about the rules of the Dewey Decimal System. Oh well, I have to come back tomorrow anyway. I plaster a quizzical yet encouraging expression on my face as he reaches the door of my room.

  ‘No luck?’

  ‘No …’

  ‘Never mind, I’ll look at everything tomorrow.’ I close the laptop and gather my things into a pile.

  ‘Actually.’ Ian pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. ‘I couldn’t find the files. They weren’t on the right shelves.’ He is still holding the list he wrote and now he taps it repeatedly into the palm of his other hand. ‘Someone must have misfiled them.’

  ‘But you can find them, right? Maybe they’re with the rest of the stuff in cold storage?’

  ‘Perhaps. I’m sorry, this is quite disconcerting. We’re very proud of our record keeping here at the Public Records Office. I’ve spoken to the retrieval team.’

  I arch an eyebrow. Is there a SWAT team for lost files?

  Ian sees my look. ‘That is, the staff doing the collections today, and when they’ve done the afternoon pick-up they’ll start checking surrounding shelves. Hopefully the items are not far away and we’ll have everything for you tomorrow.’ He tries a smile but it dies before it reaches the corners of his mouth.

  ‘It’s okay, really.’ I can see how this has disrupted the smooth order of his archival world. ‘What’s a day? I’ve got some other errands to run, so I’ll go and do that and be ready when the doors open tomorrow. You’ve already done so much, Ian.’ I scoop my things up and step around the table. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

  Ian takes a backward step to allow me to exit the private room, then walks me to the main door, still tightly clutching my request list. Just before we trigger the sensors, he stops.

  ‘I really don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Nothing to say.’ I pat his arm. ‘Hard to get good help these days. Someone probably left the work experience kid alone for five minutes.’

  Ian straightens up and his chin tenses. I figure I’m about to get a version of the ‘In my day …’ speech, so I step forward, triggering the doors to glide open. ‘See you tomorrow then, all right?’

  He nods and I head out toward the lift. The doors close but I can still see him there, list i
n hand, completely deflated, betrayed by the archival system.

  ***

  Ten o’clock Wednesday and I am first though the doors of the reading room, beating out a silver-haired lady whose bulging folder screams family history and a teenager in school uniform who has spent the past ten minutes sucking on a strand of hair. I make a beeline for the information desk, but pull up short when I see it is staffed by a young, skinny guy with blonde hair and a tan so deep he looks out of place in an indoor setting. I do a slow pirouette, trying to spot Ian somewhere in the room. He knew I’d be here, so perhaps he’s just sorting out my stuff. I cross to the private rooms in case he’s set one aside for me, but they’re all empty. I turn back just in time to see him emerge from the Staff Only door. Ian spots me straight away, squares his shoulders and heads over, his precise stride proclaiming his military past.

  ‘Miss Clayton. Alex.’

  ‘Good morning, Ian.’ I realise he’s never used my first name before and suddenly I’m worried. ‘What have you got for me?’

  He stares at me for a moment, minute twitches of his mouth suggest that he has something to say but doesn’t know how. Instead, he gestures back to the information desk. The skinny guy sees us approaching and swivels his chair around, ceding it to Ian. Ian takes a moment to pull the visitor chair around to his side of the desk, so when we sit our knees are almost touching. He leans forward, clasps his hands, then leans back and visibly straightens his spine.

  ‘I’m not quite sure how to begin.’

  ‘I gather there’s a problem. Have I broken a rule or something?’ It’s the only reason I can think of for Ian’s odd demeanour.

  ‘No, no.’ He holds up his hands in a double stop motion. ‘It’s nothing like that. Yes, there is a problem, a rather significant one at that, but you are entirely blameless. The fault lies squarely with us.’

  I wait. Nod my head forward and raise my eyebrows.

  ‘It seems that, ah, all the documents you’re seeking, with the exception of the death certificate, have been misplaced.’