The Portrait of Molly Dean

by Katherine Kovacic

  ‘All of them?’

  ‘It would seem so, yes.’

  ‘All of them.’ I can’t figure this out. The various bits and pieces should all be filed in different areas. One missing item I can understand, but five or six?

  ‘Well, have they all just been stored somewhere together? Off-site? They are old files.’

  ‘We’ve checked. I’ve checked. It’s all gone. The only thing that turned up was an empty manila folder with the file number on it, and we only found that when we moved a shelf to check if anything had fallen behind it.’

  I imagine how desperate a bunch of librarians must have been to even contemplate moving a shelf. Ian is probably just as put out about this as I am, maybe more so. It takes me a moment to come up with something to say. ‘So not one single file or scrap of paper anywhere?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘Do you even know when it went missing? I mean, are there records of when the material was last requested?’

  Ian brightens and swivels toward the computer terminal. His fingers dart across the keyboard as he enters a file number. It seems he has memorised it now; there must have been a lot of frantic searching going on. He gives the return key an emphatic thwack, then leans forward, chin raised so he can use the bottom part of his bifocals. I see his face fall a moment before he throws himself back into the chair.

  ‘It hasn’t been requested since the electronic catalogue was established.’

  ‘And of course there’s no way to check before that.’ I can’t believe such a simple research exercise has blown up like this.

  ‘Unless …’ Ian pulls open the bottom drawer of the desk and extracts a manila folder. He waves it at me. ‘This is what we found. See? The file number is here.’ He shows me the front of the folder, which carries two coloured tags and an alphanumeric string. ‘But even though the catalogue is computerised, up until very recently users had to sign files in and out. Card system, that sort of thing, and they had to sign that they’d abide by the viewing and copying restrictions imposed on certain documents.’

  He opened the folder. On the left-hand side, a lined sheet was stuck to the cardboard. From my upside-down perspective, I could see that two of the lines had been filled in.

  Ian sighed. ‘No joy. The only time this was signed out was in 1958.’

  ‘But two lines are filled in,’ I say.

  ‘No, there was only ever a single request.’ He grimaces and shakes his head. ‘On the second line someone has simply made a note, stating that when it was signed out in 1958 there was no material in the folder.’

  ‘So it was all lost as long ago as that?’ My voice rises. ‘Why on earth put the folder back then?’

  ‘I assume so there was a place to put the documents if they turned up somewhere, and in the meantime it would act as a placeholder so a librarian didn’t spend fruitless hours searching for the file. I should have checked the log sheet when we found this, but all I could think of was the empty folder and all the missing documents.’

  Ian’s words calm me down. I realise how much time and effort he has put into this search for me, and how much of a hit his professional pride has taken.

  ‘Never mind, it’s not the end of the world,’ I say, although Ian’s face tells me otherwise. ‘I was only hoping to flesh out some facts but I’ll just work with what I’ve got.’

  Ian offers me a half-hearted smile. ‘I’ll endeavour to lift my game when you’re in next, and I’ll put out the word to the other archivists to keep an eye out for misfiled things. However, I suspect someone’s made off with these items long ago. I’m really terribly sorry. I feel I’ve failed in my duty.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Ian. It’s not your fault.’

  ‘Thank you, Alex. I only hope Daphne Lambell was as understanding as you.’

  I freeze, staring at him. My mouth is hanging open and I snap it shut, swallow. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Just that I hope Daphne Lambell didn’t get too upset over the missing files.’ He frowns at me, then turns the empty manila folder in my direction, pointing to the neat pencilled writing on the first page. ‘Daphne Lambell was the last person to be disappointed by the absence of files. In 1958.’

  ‘Daphne Lambell.’ I look where he’s pointing and see it for myself. Lambell. It’s an uncommon sort of name. It’s also the name of the detective who investigated the murder of Molly Dean: Senior Detective Percy Lambell. Things had suddenly become very interesting.

  ***

  A quick check of Ian’s White Pages shows no listing for D. Lambell. I could be chasing another ghost; the odds are small that 1958’s Daphne is still around, but you never know. I figure if I draw a blank with Daphne, I can always cold call the other Lambells in the phone book. There are only six listed.

  Part of me wants to call it quits right now, but for some reason I can’t let this go. Whether it’s Rob’s reaction to the mysterious underbidder, some noble idea of justice, sheer pigheadedness or the chance to increase my profit, I decide to push on. Ian is sitting there, patiently waiting for me presumably to either say something or get the hell away from his desk and let him do some work. I look up from the phone book and meet his questing gaze. ‘Do you have the electoral roll here?’

  ‘No.’ His shoulders droop a little more. Another archival wish unfulfilled. ‘That’s State Library for historical records or any office of the Australian Electoral Commission for the latest version. I’m not sure what the most recent version at the State Library would be, although they do keep things fairly up to date, so I’ve heard.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I stand up, return my chair to its proper place and settle my bag on my shoulder.

  ‘I hope you have better luck with the rest of your research, Alex.’

  ‘I’ll come and buy you a coffee and tell you how it went.’ Ian has been great and this setback will make him even keener to help next time I need something.

  ‘I’d be delighted. Especially if this avenue bears fruit!’ There is a hint of the old vibrancy creeping back into his tone.

  ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’ I knock on the laminate desktop. There must be wood in there somewhere. I raise my palm in a final goodbye and leave Ian at the centre of his kingdom. As I pass through the doors, I call directory assist for the address of the nearest Electoral Commission office. There’s one in Lonsdale Street on the opposite side of the city, so I decide to move the car and hope I can find a meter.

  ***

  I score a parking spot in Little Lonsdale Street. It’s a few blocks away from my destination, but right in front of a coffee shop, so I grab a skinny latte and call it lunch. It’s a beautiful autumn day, bright sun but with a winter crispness to the air. Cutting down Exhibition Street, I dawdle along, enjoying my coffee and the lovely play of light through the fluttering golden leaves of the plane trees. When I reach my destination I’m feeling pleasantly warm from the caffeine and sunshine. That feeling is instantly dispelled when I walk inside and am confronted by a decor that can only be described as public servant blah. Everything from the carpet to the workers looks washed out and careworn.

  ‘Excuse me.’ I approach the nearest desk.

  ‘You have to take a number.’ She doesn’t even look up.

  I look around and confirm that not only am I the only non-employee in the place, but all the lanyard wearers are studiously avoiding eye contact. Sighing, I walk back to the door and rip a paper ticket from the dispenser.

  ‘Number eighty-eight.’

  I look at my ticket – eighty-eight – and head back to the same desk. ‘I’d like to see the electoral roll, please.’

  ‘Are you wanting to check your enrolment status?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is there a change of address?’

  ‘No, I just want to see the electoral roll.’

 
; ‘For the division of Melbourne?’

  ‘No, all of Victoria, please.’

  ‘All of Victoria.’ She regards me silently, looks at her pink acrylic nails. ‘The entire roll or just A to E, F to K –’

  ‘Isn’t it all on computer anyway?’ I cut her off.

  She purses her lips, then pushes back from her desk. ‘Over here.’

  There is a computer tucked away in the corner. The public servant stomps over to the terminal and jiggles the mouse, bringing the screen to life. ‘No copying, recording or photographing.’ She returns to her desk but keeps her eyes fastened on me.

  The chair turns out to be way too low for comfortable typing. I feel for a lever or wheel to raise it, stand up and take a look, then resign myself to looking like a begging dog. I can almost feel the smirks behind me. It takes me a moment to work out how to navigate the roll, but then I’m staring at Lambe, W., followed by a short list of Lambells. Right at the top is Daphne Elizabeth Lambell and an address in East Brighton, barely a suburb away from where Molly Dean lived and died. This might be the daughter of Detective Lambell; a sister or wife would most likely be dead by now and even this woman could be quite elderly. I jot down the address, half expecting a sharp rebuke at any moment, but when I get up to leave I realise the public servants have erased me from their collective memory and I’ve ceased to exist. I return the favour and depart without a backward glance.

  ***

  Back home, I type Daphne’s address into Yahoo to see if anything comes up. It’s always nice to know what you’re dealing with, and I’m hoping I don’t find anything about a derelict house with a rubbish-filled garden. It would be just my luck to track down Daphne Lambell only to find she’s a batty old cat lady. What appears on the screen gives me a glimmer of hope. It’s a link to the website of a place called Hillview.

  Clicking on the link, I navigate to the site. I’m greeted by an image of a high brick fence, crowns of riotous pink rhododendrons peeking over the top, and a wrought-iron gate bearing a discreet brass sign, Hillview. Five-Star Aged Care. I click through to the Contact Us page where the phone number is displayed in large, vision-friendly format. Pushing the laptop away, I pick up the desk phone and dial. The call is picked up on the third ring.

  ‘Good afternoon, Hillview. This is Sandra, how may I help?’ She sounds like Julie Andrews on happy pills.

  ‘Hello Sandra, my name is Alex. I was hoping to speak to Daphne Lambell, please.’

  ‘May I ask what this is in reference to, please?’

  I hesitate. I can’t exactly mention murder. ‘I’m researching family history and I was delighted to find a Lambell descendant. I don’t know Daphne Lambell, but I’m hoping she might agree to speak with me.’ It’s not all that far from the truth. I really was delighted to find a Lambell descendant, I just don’t happen to be related.

  ‘Could you repeat your name for me?’

  ‘Alex Clayton.’

  ‘One moment, please.’ There is a click and I am left with an orchestral version of Henry Mancini’s ‘Moon River’. We’re just becoming Huckleberry friends when Sandra comes back on the line.

  ‘Miss Lambell will speak with you. I’m putting you through now.’

  Before I can thank her there is another click and the burr of an internal line ringing.

  ‘Hello?’ The voice has a thinness that speaks of the years, but the tone is warm with no hint of tremor.

  ‘Miss Lambell?’

  ‘Yes. I presume you’re Alex Clayton. Sandra tells me you want to talk to me about family history. I’m not aware of any Lambell relatives. How do you think I can help you?’

  Clearly Daphne Lambell is in full possession of all her faculties.

  ‘To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure Miss Lambell. May I just double check … you are related to Lambell, the police detective?’

  ‘He was an inspector when he retired, but yes, Percy Lambell was my father.’

  ‘Well, it’s his history I’m really interested in. I’m not a genealogist or family historian. I was just hoping you might be able to help me with some details about Det … I mean Inspector Lambell’s working life, please.’

  ‘Can you be more specific, Miss Clayton?’

  I swallow. I don’t want her to think I’m some sort of ghoul or that I’m going to criticise her father. ‘I’m hoping you might be able to tell me more about his investigation of a particular case from 1930.’ I swallow again but before I can say another word, Daphne Lambell beats me to it.

  ‘Molly Dean.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘It’s not hard to guess. It was such a sensational case at the time and Dad could never stop thinking about it. He hated the fact someone got away with it and he carried it with him for the rest of his life. But tell me, why are you interested?’

  And so, leaning back in my office chair, I tell this elderly woman about the portrait of Molly and my decision to find out more about her story, although I leave out the bit about hoping to make a huge profit. Finally, in response to another question, I explain how I managed to track her down to Hillview. There is a moment’s silence when I finish speaking, then I ask a couple of questions of my own. ‘Why did you request the files in 1958? And what did you find?’ A deep sigh echoes down the line.

  ‘Dad retired in 1950. He talked about the Dean case for most of my life, but after he retired it became almost an obsession. I thought if I could see the documents – the evidence – for myself, perhaps I could help him somehow. I don’t quite know what I thought I’d do. Suddenly solve the case?’ She sniffs, sighs again. ‘Anyway, to answer your second question, the only thing I found was a folder with a single sheet of paper in it.’

  ‘The folder’s completely empty now. What was on the paper?’

  ‘Essentially nothing. It was simply a requisition slip with the Dean file number written on it. Someone’s idea of a joke, I suppose.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Quite. But you’ve gone to so much trouble already, I think you’d best come and visit me, Alex Clayton.’

  ‘Really? I mean, thanks, I’d like that.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I can about my father and the Molly Dean case, but don’t expect any sort of grand revelation.’

  ‘Miss Lambell, I’ll just be pleased to meet you and grateful for any thoughts you have.’

  We organise a time for me to visit Hillview the next day and Miss Lambell promises to put my name on the visitors’ register. After I terminate the call I just sit there, gazing sightlessly at my filing cabinets and bookshelves. Several times today I’ve told myself I’d stop, let the Molly Dean thing go. But now as thoughts of murder and missing files chase each other around my head, I realise something: I’m completely hooked.

  1930

  It had been an effort for Sarah to convince Molly, but finally here they were, walking through the gaping mouth of Mister Moon into Luna Park. Saturday evening and the air was rich with the scent of fairy floss and toffee, while 50,000 lights twinkled. Faces around them were glowing with delight and wonder.

  ‘I can’t understand why you were so keen to come,’ Molly said, but as the colours washed over them, she felt herself begin to relax. She pulled off her red beret and tucked it in her bag. Her saxe blue crêpe-de-Chine coat, with its rucked collar and shirred belt, was just heavy enough to protect her from the light breeze without being too warm, so she left the buckle firmly fastened.

  ‘It’ll be the bee’s knees, Molly!’ Sarah executed a little skip. ‘We can have our fortunes told, there’s the carousel and the River Caves, I’m dying to go on The Whip, and it’s been simply an age since I was on the Scenic Railway.’

  As if in response there was a loud rattle overhead, followed by the extended scream of passengers as they plunged down one slope and up the next. Both girls turned to stare.
The brakeman, standing like a warrior between the two carriages, gave them a jaunty salute as he swept past.

  Molly didn’t see herself as an amusement park sort of girl. This type of entertainment was for the masses. She had loftier ideals, still … she felt herself being swept up by the sugar-laden night, the crowd, and Sarah’s infectious enthusiasm. Molly resolved to put aside her qualms for the moment. Perhaps she could write an article about the experience, she mused, or better still, a poem, using Luna Park as a metaphor for the ills of modern society. One hand crept into her handbag and felt for her notebook and pencil.

  ‘Come on then.’ She grinned at Sarah. ‘If we’re going to do this we’d better get our skates on.’

  Molly and Sarah decided to start with the Big Dipper, and Molly’s plan to document the experience came unstuck the moment their carriage inched over the crest of the first incline. As her stomach flew up into her chest, all Molly’s pent-up frustrations and anxiety about the future collided with the excitement and fright of the ride, and she screamed until her throat was raw.

  ‘The Whip now.’ Sarah grabbed Molly’s arm and began pulling her through the crowd toward an amazing octopus-like machine. ‘Let’s do all the really wild rides before we eat.’

  For once, Molly was happy to let someone else take charge. ‘But I want to do the River Caves later.’

  After a couple of hours of dips and spins and the secret childish delight of the largest carousel in the southern hemisphere, the girls emerged, giggling uncontrollably, from the House of Follies.

  ‘I’m famished, what’s the time?’ Molly said. It was impossible to tell. The night was hidden beyond the walls of the funfair, the sky dimmed by the glittering fantasy of the Luna Park world.

  ‘Food, fortune, then River Caves.’ Sarah turned toward the Refreshments sign and the friends joined the short queue in front of the kiosk.

  ‘Hot dog, fairy floss or do you fancy something else?’ Molly stared at the menu.

  ‘In for a penny! Hot dog and then ice cream.’