Hot dogs in hand, Molly and Sarah found an empty bench and settled in for their late snack.
‘How’s things with you anyway, Molly?’
Molly glanced at Sarah, who was studiously examining her food.
‘I don’t know why I ever moved back home.’ Molly paused to take a bite. ‘It’s been worse than ever.’
‘Your mum or your brother?’
‘Her. It’s only ever her. Ralph is just a great lump of a thing.’
Sarah paused a moment. ‘Last time I called around, your mother asked me all sorts of questions about you. Who your other friends are, men, where you go. I thought she was going to shake me when I didn’t give her any answers!’
‘She probably was. I’ve started getting my most important letters sent to Colin’s house so she can’t intercept them. Did I tell you about how she dragged me into the house by my hair a few weeks ago?’
Molly generally told Sarah most of what went on at Milton Street, and she’d shown her some of the bruises too, visible despite Molly’s best efforts with make-up.
‘Has your mother followed you again?’
‘Not since that time she sent Adam after me as well. But she hides – or burns! – my best clothes instead, to stop me going out in the first place. And then flies off the handle when I spend the night somewhere else.’ Molly crumpled the paper serviette in her hand. She’d consumed the hot dog in a few savage bites.
‘Is she still trying to make you go out with him?’
Molly’s face twisted and she laughed bitterly. ‘Oh she keeps pushing it all right. That’s when she’s not taking him into her bed.’
‘But she’s … I mean, he’s …’
‘Yes, exactly.’
Sarah hesitated. ‘She sent me a letter.’
‘Who?’
‘Your mother. She told me to leave you alone. Said I was leading you into a bohemian life.’
‘Oh this is madness! I’m sorry she’s dragging you into her spiteful, vitriolic little world. If she sends you anything else, tear it up. Please? I’ll be out of there just as soon as I can, and then she’ll have to leave me alone.’
‘I’d share a place with you, Molly, only I just can’t afford it.’
Molly smiled and placed a hand on Sarah’s knee. ‘It’s okay, Sarah. I’ve saved up a bit – and she won’t find it – but I think Colin might ask me to move in with him.’
‘Molly Dean! Aren’t you a dark horse? Just like Janet Gaynor in Sunny Side Up. Will he look after you?’
‘He’ll let me be me and that’s what matters. I’ll be free to write, all day if I want to, and talk about important things to all sorts of people all night.’
‘Well, I know you can’t stay in Milton Street for much longer, but don’t do anything rash. You don’t have to turn your entire life upside-down all at once. You’re a marvellous teacher and the children love you. Why not just worry about finding new digs for now, and surely the rest will follow once you’re more settled.’ Sarah paused as Molly slowly shook her head. ‘So! How about ice cream and River Caves?’
‘What, no one-penny fortunes?’ Molly said, and dusting herself off, she stood and offered her hand, pulling Sarah up and back toward the Penny Arcade. ‘What do you think? Wealth or a tall dark stranger?’
‘Definitely tall dark stranger. Or maybe something unexpected.’
They began strolling in the general direction of Noah’s Ark, letting themselves be carried by the surge and flow of the crowd.
‘I don’t need something unexpected, I just need a chance,’ Molly murmured.
In that moment, for anyone watching, the flashing lights made the two girls look like a flickering image on a cinema screen. Then the crowd shifted and they were gone.
1999
The door is open and I can see through into the bright room. An elderly woman is ensconced in a large, very comfy-looking recliner, the sun spilling over her shoulder and turning her fine white hair into a fragile corona. Her eyes are closed so I take a moment to study her, trying to figure out my best approach. She has a long frame, lean in the way that only the elderly can be, but with traces of an active, possibly athletic life still in evidence. Her legs – what I can see below the hem of her dress – show no signs of swollen ankles, arthritic joints or any other infirmities, but a walker tucked discreetly in the corner tells a different story.
I tap on the doorframe and instantly her eyelids snap open. Green eyes appraise me for a long moment before the rest of her body stirs. ‘You must be Alex.’
‘Yes, Miss Lambell. Sorry if I disturbed you.’ I walk in and immediately the institutional smell of the hallway, a soul-destroying potpourri of disinfectant, decay and a hint of urine, is replaced by Jean Patou’s Joy. The scent of rose and jasmine is not heavy; Daphne Lambell hasn’t doused herself for my benefit. Rather, the fragrance is ingrained in every corner of the room. I suspect she’s been wearing this perfume her entire life.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve been waiting for you. Besides, anyone who gets to my age needs to be disturbed on a regular basis. Sometimes this place makes me feel like I’ve already slipped into a coma. Sit down, sit down.’
I have the choice of perching on her bed or taking an old wooden chair with a kangaroo-carved back rail. It looks original, so I give it a little shake to check for sturdiness before sitting down. Aware that I am being closely scrutinised, I straighten my spine against the chair’s wooden slats and make sure I don’t slump. ‘Thank you for seeing me, Miss Lambell.’
‘Oh call me Daphne. I’m far too old to be a miss. Now, they come around with tea and coffee at about ten, but if you’d like something now?’
Shaking my head I get straight to it. ‘I want to talk to you about Molly Dean.’
‘So you said.’ Her eyes narrow a fraction. ‘May I ask why?’
I frown. Maybe Daphne isn’t as on the ball as she seems. Dutifully, I repeat everything I told her yesterday.
‘I’d wondered, when you first called me, if you were some sensation-seeker, perhaps looking for a way to make money from the story.’ Daphne glances at her hands, the knobbly fingers steepled in her lap. ‘But hearing you now, and watching you as you say it, I think you genuinely want to know what happened.’ She both turns and tilts her head, fixing me with a keen gaze.
‘There’s something about the whole story that’s reeled me in. It’s bothering me and I can’t let it go.’ It’s true, but I feel a bit guilty not mentioning the money angle.
‘Dad couldn’t let it go, either.’ Daphne leans forward a little. ‘Molly Dean’s killer was the one who got away.’
‘Did he keep a notebook or diary? Do you have any of his papers?’
‘Oh no dear, he wasn’t a diary sort of man. There were the official case notes of course, property of Victoria Police and, as you’ve found out, “unable to be located”.’ She emphasises the last words.
I feel myself deflate. Daphne is just another little old lady on for a chat. Then I realise she’s been toying with me.
‘But he talked about it all the time. All the details, over and over. One of my strongest childhood memories is Mother shushing him so I wouldn’t hear. But of course, when it happened, the whole neighbourhood was talking and I was certainly old enough to understand the details. Several years later, he told me the full story. I don’t think a week went by that he didn’t mention her in some way. It used to drive Mother up the wall, but I thought it was fascinating. It was the only bit of work he ever brought home.’ She pauses, lost in the memory of her policeman father.
I try to steer her back to Molly. ‘So what did he talk about? Do you remember much?’
‘It’s all here.’ Daphne taps her temple. ‘But you might need to take notes.’
I decide to record Daphne on the voice recorder I always carry; I’ve foun
d it’s much easier than deciphering my handwriting. While I fiddle about with that, the tea lady arrives to deal out insipid caffeinated beverages, which I cautiously accept, and shortbread biscuits. I’ve been fishing around for a way to get Daphne to tell me what she knows, and as we settle in with our cups of tea, I realise how to begin. ‘Did your dad tell you how he first heard about the murder?’
A moment as she sips, sighs and with a genteel rattle sets her cup and saucer aside. Then she tells me her father’s story: the story of Percy Lambell and the murder of Molly Dean.
***
‘Dad – Senior Detective Percy Lambell – was quickly on the scene. He was there within ten minutes of the alarm being raised, right after the local constable. His colleagues said he always had a knack for being hot on the heels of Melbourne’s criminal element. He crash-tackled pickpockets, led raids on Squizzy Taylor’s Barkly Street address … Dad was always in the thick of it.’
‘What sort of a man was he?’
‘He wasn’t averse to putting his fists to use when it was warranted, if that’s what you’re asking.’ She smiles. ‘He had the sharp suits and Gary Cooper looks, but he was clever too. Most people tended to underestimate Percy Lambell. They didn’t expect such a tall, debonair man to be quite so handy when things got physical.’
Daphne takes a deep breath before continuing. ‘Dad told me every minute detail of the case, always replaying his actions, asking himself what more he could have done.
‘The Owens were the people who’d telephoned for the police, and they were huddled by their gate when Dad stepped into the gloomy laneway where Molly lay. There was little to be done until more officers and the medical people arrived, but Dad liked having time alone at the scene.’ Her voice has taken on a storyteller’s cadence.
‘He snapped on his torch and played the beam up the girl’s body, taking in the torn clothing, bruises, splayed legs and undergarments. There was blood everywhere. Her knickers were gone and her petticoat was tied around her arm, and it stopped him cold. Instinct told him there was something particularly foul about this crime. The stocking around the neck, tied so tightly that it puckered the flesh, at least made sense. Then the beam of his light found Molly’s face.
‘He swore to himself, flicking the light back to her chest, and sure enough she was still breathing, just the tiniest bit. He stormed back to Addison Street, yelling at the boys in the wireless car to radio for the damn ambulance to hurry. Just like Dad, the ambulance driver thought he was attending a fatality, so when the Dodge wagon finally rumbled around the corner from Dickens Street, it was with all the urgency of a country vicar heading out to afternoon tea with the CWA. But one look at Percy’s face and his wildly waving arms had the crew snatching up their gear and hustling toward the poor, broken girl.
‘He yelled at them to be careful of evidence, but the lead medic ignored him, focusing on the patient and keeping his wide-eyed junior on track. I gather it was rather a gruesome scene.
‘The younger medic was sent back for the stretcher and he half stumbled, half ran back to the ambulance, brushing through the small gathering of morbid locals. Then he got to work, the familiarity of routine and practice taking over from the horror of a girl lying like a crushed lily in a pool of her own blood.
‘In a matter of minutes, Molly had been loaded onto the stretcher, bumped over the cobbles and was on her way to the Alfred Hospital. This time, the siren was screaming.’
Daphne is back in that Elwood lane with her father, and as her well-remembered words flow around me, I am there too. I recall one of the worrying details I’d come across in the paper.
‘Daphne.’ Her eyes refocus on me. ‘I have to ask. The stocking around her neck … Why didn’t your dad take it off? She was still breathing.’
Her face fills with pain and when she answers, for the first time, her voice sounds like every one of her seventy-something years. ‘He never forgave himself for that. The moment he saw she was alive he ran to hurry the ambulance, and then he simply left it up to the medics. After all, they had the instruments and – he assumed – the knowledge to take the stocking off without doing any more damage. But when he got to the hospital and found out they’d done nothing, that the stocking was only cut off in the emergency room … He said the doctor was livid.’
I reach out and place my hands over hers, which are now twisting into her skirt.
‘I’d have put my faith in the ambos too.’
We sit a moment, both trying and failing to dispel the horror of the last hours of Molly Dean. I give her hands a final squeeze. ‘What happened once the ambulance left?’
‘Just as the ambulance was speeding away, a divisional car swung into Addison Street, coming to a stop with its lights angled on the scene. Three uniforms piled out and, with a nod from my dad, began to ease the locals back and form a rough perimeter around the scene. Then another figure unfolded itself from the front seat.’
She takes a sip of tea. I lift my cup but quickly put it down again. The tea is stone cold.
‘Detective Jerry O’Keeffe had arrived. Physically, Jerry was the opposite of Dad, looking exactly like the brawler he’d once been. He was short, but a solid block of a man, and his physique seemed to incite every ruffian to have a go, but Jerry’s thousand-yard stare changed their minds just as quickly.
‘Jerry came and stood a few steps short of Dad, hands in pockets, and took a slow survey.
‘Dad gave him a moment to take in the sights – the clear signs of a struggle and dragging, and the copious amount of blood. He waited with his face turned to the faint breeze that chased through the streets, whisking the last of the day’s sultry heat from the air. It carried a hint of the ocean, he said, and he took a deep breath before turning back to his partner and the slaughterhouse reek of the narrow lane.
‘Jerry was already lighting up a cigarette to mask the smell, and of course his first question was, “Who was she?”
‘“At the moment, the question is still, who is she,” Dad said. “But I reckon that’ll be a different story by morning. I’ll talk to those people.” He pointed to the Owens, a middle-aged couple, still standing at the nearby gate in their dressing gowns. “You have a look and get her bag, books and the rest.” He and Jerry were partnered, but Dad was the senior officer.
‘My father picked his way across Addison Street toward the gate, set back from the footpath a few feet and flanked by a tall, sharply trimmed hedge. He turned to look back at where the trail of blood began, and realised this shadowy alcove would hide a man completely. The perfect spot to lie in wait for an innocent girl to come along. But he was always careful not to jump to conclusions, was Dad. Who would expect a lone woman to walk past at this time of night? It was just as likely she’d been followed, he thought.
‘He turned back to the man and woman, safe behind the pickets. Dad told them who he was and they introduced themselves as Beatrice and Frank Owen, brother and sister.
‘Dad asked them if they knew the girl, and the brother, Frank, jumped in and said he hadn’t let his sister see, once he’d realised what it was. The story they told was that she – Beatrice – had heard something and roused her brother. She made him go out, and as soon as he saw the blood he went to call the police. That’s all they knew.’
Clouds have been building while Daphne talks, smothering the sun and making the room seem suddenly cold. She reaches out and pulls the cord of a standard lamp, casting a pool of light around her chair. I shift in my wooden seat. ‘And then?’
‘Dad went back to see what Jerry had come up with and found him bagging up all Molly’s bits and pieces, all the things that had been scattered across the street.’ Daphne shakes her head, still feeling sadness at a crime committed sixty-nine years ago. I feel the same, even though I haven’t lived with it like she has.
‘The last thing he picked up was her wallet. All she had w
as threepence, but there were also letters and each one was addressed to Mary or Molly Dean, 86 Milton Street, Elwood. That’s when they found out her name, and that’s when they realised she was only two minutes from home. So Dad called for a car and they went to tell the family. Then things really got interesting.’
Daphne is ready to forge ahead with the story, but her voice is starting to sound a little strained. ‘Would you like to take a break for a while? I don’t want to wear out my welcome.’
‘I could keep going until lunchtime, perhaps. They serve quite early here.’
As she says it, I realise my nasal passages are being assaulted by the smell of boiled cabbage and the unmistakable oleaginous signature of frying. The scent of Daphne’s perfume has been leeched from the room. ‘Perhaps I could take you out for lunch? I thought I noticed a little cafe just down the road.’
Her wrinkles deepen, every one a testament to a life filled with smiles. ‘It’s been some time since I had a decent outing.’ She slaps her hands on her thighs. ‘I broke my hip badly, so when there’s a bit of distance involved, these things don’t work like they used to.’
I point to the walker. ‘I don’t mind if you don’t.’
‘It’s been a hard thing to get used to,’ she says. ‘But with such lovely company I’m quite prepared to swallow my pride.’
I pull the walker out and get Daphne organised, then we cruise slowly out past reception, making sure they know Daphne’s okay and when we should be back. As the receptionist buzzes us out, an old guy makes a determined dash for the door. He’s snagged at the last second by a nurse who steers him gently back into the bowels of Hillview.
‘Poor Herb,’ says Daphne. ‘Bad dementia. Thinks he’s in a POW camp again.’
I usher Daphne out into the fresh air and we trundle through the gate.
By tacit mutual agreement, we avoid the topic of Molly Dean over lunch. Instead, I explain how I make money and Daphne talks about her father’s rise from lowly constable to police inspector.
The Portrait of Molly Dean Page 8