‘You and your dad were obviously quite close,’ I say.
She eyes me over her water glass. ‘He was my hero and I was his only child.’
It’s the rationale for her whole life, in a simple sentence.
I nod gently. ‘You want this solved too, don’t you?’
‘For Dad just as much as for Molly.’ She puts her glass back on the table, watching herself do it, and when her eyes meet mine again they are all business. ‘So enough of this lollygagging about. I’ve got things to tell you, and you’ve got work to do.’
***
Back at Hillview, Daphne talks me through Percy’s first meeting with Molly Dean’s mother. What I’d read in the papers had painted Ethel Dean as a fairly hard woman, but that was nothing compared to what Percy Lambell revealed to his daughter.
When the detectives arrived on her doorstep at 2.30 in the morning, not only were they surprised to find Mrs Dean seemingly wide awake, but they were gobsmacked at her apparent lack of concern for Molly. She berated them, insinuating that whatever had happened, Molly had brought it on herself, then left the detectives standing on the doormat while she went to rouse her son, Ralph.
‘What did she say when they asked her if she knew where Molly had been?’ I ask.
‘Oh she claimed she hadn’t seen her for days. Molly was too busy living a bohemian life. Then she pointed her finger squarely at the artist Percy Leason and also that music chappy, Fritz Hart. Dad said her voice was full of venom when she spat out the names … Made it sound as if her daughter was carrying on affairs with both men.’
The two men were part of Melbourne’s artistic circle, but both were happily married with children in 1930. I shake my head and gesture for Daphne to continue.
‘Ethel Dean’s behaviour didn’t get any better. Jerry O’Keeffe was carrying the bag of Molly’s belongings, and as soon as Ethel found out what he had, she started shouting for him to hand over her daughter’s handbag. When he refused, she tried to wrestle the parcel away from him, and it took both Percy and Jerry to calm her down. They couldn’t decide whether she was just after money or if she thought there might be something else in her daughter’s bag, something damning. Apparently it was a very icy ride to the hospital.
‘When they all got to the Alfred Hospital, Molly was in surgery but not expected to live. Her mother didn’t ask about her daughter’s injuries or condition. She had no interest in what had happened to Molly, although she did ask one nurse if Molly’s face had been “marked much”. Of course Dad wondered why she’d specifically asked that question. The more the detectives saw of Molly Dean’s mother, the more suspicious they became. There was something very wrong between mother and daughter.
‘The detectives left Mrs Dean and her son at the Alfred, keen to follow what clues they had while the trail was still fresh. There had been another girl, Mena Griffiths, murdered in Ormond just a couple of weeks earlier, and although she hadn’t been bashed like Molly, she had been throttled. Dad thought the same man might be responsible, so he didn’t want to waste a moment.’
Once again, the hypnotic lilt of Daphne’s words have drawn me back to Elwood, 1930. I lived the dash through dark streets, the hostile atmosphere in the police car and pictured Percy Lambell bursting from the brightly lit front doors of the Alfred into the comparative darkness of Commercial Road.
‘After he’d left the Alfred, Dad headed straight back to Addison Street for another look. A couple of uniforms were standing around, but everyone else had gone back to bed, or to meet a deadline at the Truth or The Argus. What struck him was the darkness. The newish moon was hidden behind a blanket of cloud and in that particular place there was no street lighting to chase away the shadows. Molly’s attacker had chosen his spot well, but had he been waiting for her or following? And was it Molly he was after or just any girl?
‘Dad had a lot of strings to follow and he started by walking the path Molly would’ve taken to her home in Milton Street. It was still early and there was no one to question but the milk-o. He matched his pace to the man as the horse walked on, it was so accustomed to its route that it’d stop by itself at every delivery before heading back to the dairy. The man’s answers were what Dad had expected. Saw nothing and no one. Dad reckoned the bloke was on the level and left him to finish his round.
‘When he got to the Deans’ home there was no one about, so it was a good chance for a look around. Dad let himself into the garden, but there was nothing to be seen. It was just after five o’clock and there was a shift in the sky, a promise of sunrise. Time to go home for a shower, shave and coffee. Dad had to be ready to face Mrs Dean.
‘Molly died before the sun came up. They’d known she wasn’t going to make it, but all the same … After, when Dad had a chance to talk to the hospital staff again, he found out that as soon as she was told Molly had died, Mrs Dean was out the door without a backward glance or a word for the doctor. No tears, no emotion, nothing.
‘Later that morning when the detectives went round to Milton Street, there was still nothing of the grieving mother about Mrs Dean. She grudgingly showed them into the “good room” but beat them to the punch with a question of her own, “How soon can I get the death certificate?” Apparently Molly was insured for £200. They fobbed her off.
‘Ethel Dean settled herself in the most comfortable-looking chair, leaving the men to sort themselves out. Jerry lowered himself onto the overstuffed couch, murmuring condolences to no discernible effect, while Dad stood near the mantelpiece, careful not to jostle the array of candlesticks and china ladies.
‘After the insurance question, Mrs Dean had a go at the detectives, asking if they’d questioned the men she’d mentioned the night before, then telling them to chase up Mervyn Skipper.’
I interrupt Daphne. ‘You mean The Bulletin ’s man in Melbourne?’
She nods. ‘According to Mrs Dean, Molly carried on about Skipper so much “you’d think he made the sun rise and set”. And Mrs Dean was quite comfortable referring to her daughter in the past tense. That really bothered Dad.
‘The interview went on,’ Daphne continues. ‘Dad asked question after question about Molly. Waiting for a crack in the facade, anything that would show him this bitter woman felt something for the violent death of her only daughter. Nothing. No pride in Molly’s work as a teacher, only suspicion about some of the male teachers at the school and the teachers’ college. No admiration for her daughter, only scorn for her ambition and another tirade about bohemians.
‘Dad ascertained that a year or so back, Molly had moved out for a few weeks, taking a flat in the city with the intention of devoting herself to writing. But she soon found the financial burden too great and had to return to the house at Milton Street. Ethel had plenty to say about that.
‘Up until then, Jerry had been quiet, taking notes and leaving Dad to bear the brunt of Mrs Dean’s verbal onslaught. But now he suddenly jumped in, catching the woman off guard, causing her to swing in her chair, redirect her focus. It was a technique the two detectives used often.
‘Jerry asked, “Where were you last night, Mrs Dean?” Ethel Dean was adamant: she’d been home all night. Jerry pushed, “Didn’t leave the house?” Dad was quiet, waiting by the mantel.’
Daphne tells me Ethel Dean then admitted to getting up at around quarter past one, thinking she heard Molly coming in the gate. She wasn’t getting up to let her in, rather to chastise her for her wanton ways. Of course, Molly wasn’t coming in the gate and Mrs Dean claimed she went back to bed.
Daphne stops and takes a breath. ‘Then just as Dad and Jerry thought they’d heard it all, this vitriolic woman smoothed her skirt, looked Dad square in the eye and said, “I wish you’d make no inquiries into the matter. So far as I am concerned, I would sooner you let the matter drop.”’
‘She didn’t want them to investigate her daughter’s brutal murder?’ I’m gobsmacked.
/>
‘Not a bit. She told them they’d never catch the man who did it and everyone should just move on.’
‘Why would she think they’d never make an arrest?’
Daphne nods sagely. ‘Of course that’s exactly what Dad and Jerry thought and they instantly became even more suspicious, if that was possible. When pushed, Ethel Dean said of course she hoped they’d arrest someone if there was a fiend preying on young women, but otherwise it would be better if things were just left alone.’
It’s getting late in the afternoon now, and in the lamp’s warm glow I can see Daphne is tired. ‘I’ve taken up your whole day. How about we pick this up in a few days’ time?’
‘You may be surprised to know my diary is remarkably free.’ Her smile wavers. ‘I’ve been waiting an awfully long time for this, Alex. Do you know, my father questioned more than 300 people over the Molly Dean affair? You and I having a chat is nothing.’
I try another approach. I want the story but I like this lady too much to push. ‘I have to deal with a couple of work things tomorrow. Still have to earn a buck!’ I try to sound light and breezy. Daphne isn’t fooled.
‘What if I write some things down then? For when you next have a moment to pop in.’ She shoots me a sharp look. ‘You can read the salient points then ask questions, or I could go over another part of the investigation.’
I give her a wry smile. ‘That sounds perfect. Shall I call you later tomorrow and we can make a date?’
She waves me off. ‘I’m not going anywhere. Come when you can – I’ll be here.’
I smile again and stand, the smile becoming a grimace as I discover the wooden chair had not been kind to my backside. Daphne arches one eyebrow. ‘I’ll dig out a cushion for your next visit.’
In the doorway, at the olfactory threshold, I turn. ‘Thank you.’
‘Thank you, dear.’
#xa0;
It’s Sunday before I make it back to Hillview. Daphne is waiting for me, a yellow legal pad covered with the elegant cursives of a bygone era resting on the table beside her.
I stoop and peck the proffered cheek. It seems a day of talking murder has created something of a bond. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t make it yesterday.’
‘I wasn’t expecting you. I’m sure you had plenty to think about after our time on Thursday.’
I nod. ‘I do have a couple of questions about the murder scene, but perhaps …’ I gesture to the legal pad.
‘Ask your questions, then we’ll get to that.’
‘Okay. First, since the official reports are missing, I’m still trying to figure out exactly what the injuries were. I know Molly was beaten with some sort of metal bar or club, and probably assaulted with the same thing, but what were the external injuries like? What did your dad and the doctors see? Do you know?’
She is silent for a moment. ‘Dad wouldn’t say for such a long time. Not until I was in my twenties. Finally I got up the courage to ask … She was mutilated, beaten and scratched all over. There was blood on the fence – they thought she’d hit her head going down – Dad remembered the head injuries vividly. It turned out most of the blood was from her head. There were six deep gashes on her scalp and her skull was fractured in two places. The injuries were so bad, at first they thought someone had put a gun to her head and shot her, just like that. And until Molly started groaning in the lane, no one heard a thing. She never saw it coming.’
‘Were there any clues? Any fingerprints?’ I frown. ‘Sorry, did they do fingerprints then?’
‘Oh yes, it was very specialised work and of course not nearly as sophisticated. Detective Martin, the print expert, and the photographer Constable Hobley both spent a long time at the scene. They did get some prints from the gateway at the Owens’ house, but nothing ever came of it. Any number of people would have been in and out that gate. There was no weapon found, of course.’
‘Did they look very hard? I read the police decided not to search the canal. The reason sounded a bit weak.’ I don’t want to get Daphne offside by besmirching her father, but it is an important detail.
‘Dad was furious. They just wouldn’t allocate the money or resources. And they told the press there was no point searching the canal because there’d be so much rubbish in there, it wouldn’t be possible to identify the murder weapon if they found it!’ She shakes her head. ‘No reward for information either.’
‘Why?’
‘The order came directly from the Chief Commissioner, Thomas Blamey. He told the press it was because the detectives had a theory, knew the motive and believed the murderer was someone well known to Molly.’
‘But even if the detectives had a good theory, surely they needed evidence?’
‘Apparently not enough to warrant a reward.’
Daphne seems agitated, picking fretfully at her skirt, and I wonder what she isn’t telling me. I refer to my notebook, giving her a moment to regroup.
‘Were the Owens somehow related to the Deans? I thought I saw something in one of the papers about a relative.’
‘No dear, not the Owens. But Molly’s uncle, a Mr Blyth and his family, lived right on the corner of the lane where she was found.’
‘And no one thought that a strange coincidence?’
Daphne regards me approvingly. ‘Hard to believe, isn’t it?’ She sighs. ‘But Blyth – I think he was a real estate agent – said he and his family didn’t wake up until they heard the ambulance and then he thought it was an accident. Shocked to hear his niece had been attacked, etcetera, etcetera. Completely innocent.’
‘Speaking of coincidences, what about those rumours of attacks on other women?’
‘Oh they weren’t rumours.’
‘I don’t mean Hazel Wilson or Mena Griffiths.’
Daphne nods. ‘I don’t mean them either. No, there was a rash of other attacks. Mostly after midnight, and the man went for the girls’ throats every time. He also tore the stockings off some of them. No beating though.’
‘How many were there?’
She looks at the ceiling and her fingers twitch, mentally ticking through a monstrous checklist. ‘Six. Three in St Kilda: Canterbury Road, Brighton Road and Foster Street. Two in Addison Street, a few yards from where Molly Dean was attacked.’
I rock back in my chair, my mouth falling open in surprise. But before I can say anything, Daphne delivers the coup de grâce.
‘And on 31 July 1930, one girl was attacked and dragged into the front yard of the house opposite the Dean’s home in Milton Street.’
We look at each other. None of this was in any of the newspaper accounts of Molly Dean’s murder. There was a vague mention of a couple of girls being followed, written in a way that made the reader think they were scared and imagining the whole thing, or making it up, presumably to grab a spot in the limelight. Six other women attacked and not a whisper. I draw a mental map of the streets Daphne listed. She must see the realisation dawn on my face because she is nodding as I say, ‘All of them between St Kilda Station, where Molly Dean got off her train, and the Dean’s home.’
We stare at each other some more, and I am suddenly hyperaware of the ticking of Daphne’s clock (French, ormolu, late eighteenth century).
She reaches for the legal pad. ‘I think, Alex, that now would be a good time for you to read my notes on Adam Graham. What they printed in the papers doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface.’
***
I leave Hillview in a bit of a fog. Daphne wouldn’t say a word about Adam Graham, only insisting I read her notes thoroughly before visiting again. I already know a bit about Graham from the newspaper reports, and none of it is flattering. It could be the way the articles were written, but this man had prime suspect virtually tattooed on his forehead.
The Citroën may as well be on autopilot for all the attention I pay to t
he roads as I head home. The only things that register are the gracious swags of the brick fence encircling Brighton General Cemetery. It flashes past, the occasional madonna or ostentatious cross like a macabre jack-in-the-box, popping above the red and grey. I wonder if Molly is buried here, or perhaps in St Kilda Cemetery. She lived and died roughly halfway between the two. That edifying deliberation lasts until I reach home.
I force myself to put Daphne’s notes aside for an hour while I deal with some neglected business matters. The chequebook takes a hammering as I attend to a small stack of bills, and I soon have a neat pile of envelopes ready to send out on Monday. Now I know exactly how much money I have to play with, I turn to my current auction catalogues. I have a long-time client who collects works by Napier Waller, and one of Waller’s paintings, The Hunt, has just been listed for auction at Deutscher-Menzies. Because this company is a newcomer to the Melbourne auction scene, I think there’s a very good chance I’ll be able to pick up the painting for my client at a good price. Waller’s stuff rarely appears on the open market, but he’s also responsible for a lot of public works around Melbourne. My favourite is the mosaic on the first floor of Newspaper House in Collins Street, but I also love the Myer Mural Hall and the triumphant Peace After Victory in the State Library. Few people know about Napier Waller, despite the fact that in his day, he was just as successful as the most significant of his artistic contemporaries, like Arthur Streeton. Perhaps the most impressive thing about Waller, though, is that some of his best work was done after the Great War. Waller fought for his country and was so seriously injured he lost his right arm. But he was a determined man, so he simply taught himself to draw and paint with his left hand instead. I always enjoy handling his work.
Once I’ve confirmed the viewing times and made a note in my diary, I figure I’ve done enough work-related things to justify sitting down with Daphne’s notes. In the lounge, Hogarth is already installed on the couch. I settle into a burgundy velvet wing-backed chair in the corner of the room, switch on the floor lamp and unfold Daphne’s papers.
The Portrait of Molly Dean Page 9
