The Portrait of Molly Dean

by Katherine Kovacic

  Two chipped and worn steps lead up to a porch where the original Victorian tiles – or most of them – form a geometric pattern in tan, black and ochre. Leaves from a decade of autumns are scattered across the surface and piled up where the wind has driven them. A bay window juts out to our left, but shutters obscure the interior. On the other side of the window, a suite of once-elegant wicker furniture is slowly collapsing in on itself, the victim of damp, rot and small things that like to chew.

  We position Hogarth away from the door and I press the bell. Nothing happens.

  ‘That’s a relief, because based on what we’ve seen so far, I was expecting something discordant, followed by dragging footsteps, and either Lurch or Vincent Price on the other side.’

  ‘Again, not helping, John.’ I eye off the doorknocker, but it looks as though anything too vigorous would send it crashing to the ground, so I rap firmly on the wood with my good hand. Somewhere in the house I hear a door open and a light comes on, flooding through the fanlight and the etched ruby glass panels that bracket the entrance. Rather than being welcoming, it just serves to highlight the pervading gloom. The door opens. No creaking hinges, but it sounds as though something large was dragged out of the way before the locks tumbled. Tom is standing there and I immediately step forward with the painting in front of me, blocking any view he might have of Hogarth.

  ‘Mr Raeburn. Good to see you again. I’ve brought John with me as he was unable to finish the cleaning and he wanted to be on hand if you or your father have any questions about the process.’ I’m talking fast and walking forward at the same time, but I almost falter as I step over the threshold and catch my first glimpse of the interior. The hall is jammed with a bizarre conglomeration of stuff. Antique stuff, yes, but not like delicate gilt Louis XIV chairs and Italian torchère sort of antiques. Far more random. A suit of armour sits next to a nineteenth-century pedal-operated dentist’s drill, while a Black Forest hall stand, all gnarled branches and grumpy bear, cosies up to a teetering pile of yellowing magazines so tall I’d need to reach over my head for the topmost copy. And that’s just the beginning. There is enough room to pass single file down the middle of the hall, but only just, and everything is covered by a layer of dust so thick it looks like a scientific experiment in progress.

  ‘Father is incredibly paranoid about security – won’t have cleaners or gardeners on the property – and he’s also become a bit of a hoarder.’ From the tone of his voice, I can tell Tom Raeburn knows this is the understatement of the millennium. ‘He has plans to gift his possessions to the museum.’

  What museum? The Museum of Mouldering Crap? I hope I didn’t say that out loud. Tom doesn’t react, so I think I’m safe. On the plus side, the narrow aisle means he has to walk ahead of me into the house, so it’s easy for John to slip Hogarth in behind us. I make a mental note to treat Hogarth for fleas before I let him back in our house. Then I make another note to do the same for myself. I glance over my shoulder and see John is only a few steps behind and I catch a glimpse of shaggy grey fur behind him. Hogarth won’t be thrilled about letting me out of his sight in this strange place, but there should be lots of interesting rodent-type smells to keep him occupied.

  ‘Does your father live here alone?’

  ‘Ordinarily my son comes in every day to help or take Father to medical appointments. He and Father are incredibly close. But he dislocated his shoulder earlier this week playing football, so he’s out of action.’ Tom Raeburn is talking over his shoulder so he doesn’t notice John and I gaping at each other. I’m thinking that dislocation has nothing to do with football and a lot to do with Hogarth.

  We pass three doors that are firmly closed, although I can see a key in the lock of one, and a staircase on our left, leading up into the darkness. There’s a grandfather clock on the landing of the stairs and I can hear its deep and ponderous tick. I peer up and am surprised to see it shows the correct time.

  Tom notices my interest. ‘That clock is indestructible. It has a double chime so loud you can hear it from almost anywhere in the house. Used to drive me mad when we were kids and it would be chiming through the night. Father refused to silence it when we went to bed, always said he found it reassuring in the small hours. Of course, I always thought you’d be asleep in the small hours if it wasn’t for hearing that thing boom out twenty-four notes at midnight …’

  John and I have stopped walking and are staring at Tom, who has become slightly flushed. Clearly growing up in the Raeburn family has caused a few lingering issues.

  ‘Anyway, that’s all long ago now. Father is waiting in the small sitting room.’ Tom takes a couple more steps and pushes open a door on his left. A wedge of light angles out, creating planes and deep shadows among the hallway’s detritus. He stands aside so John and I can go in first, then follows us, somehow failing to notice Hogarth.

  Despite its cavernous appearance, the sitting room is stuffy and overly warm. There is a gas fire that looks as though it’s been there since the turn of the century, its Bakelite knob worn and yellow. Judging by the scattering of burned match heads in front of the grate, the gas supply must be temperamental in a way that encourages the user to stand well back and throw matches until, one way or another, something ignites. Heavy velvet drapes cover all the windows and seem to absorb light from the room: the overhead fixture is blazing but doing surprisingly little. Bookshelves line two walls and are jammed full. I can see everything from leather and gilt spines to gaudy paperbacks, the latter often lying horizontally on top of the former. Additional piles of books and newspapers are arranged to create pathways between islands of furniture: a breakfast table and chairs close to the window, a desk near the opposite wall.

  Nearer to the fire is a massive leather chair. Based on the rest of the decor, I was expecting something like a nineteenth-century chesterfield, possibly with stuffing poking out of the back. But this is state of the art and the size of it screams American, like an upholstered cousin to a 1950s Chevy. The footrest is popped and I know that with the push of a button this baby will slowly lift and tilt until the occupant is delivered gently into the upright position. From where we are gathered to one side of the chair, I can see the footrest supports two bony, liver-spotted ankles, spanning the distance between tartan trousers and blue woollen slippers, while on the arm of the chair a hand rests, so shrivelled it looks like a witch’s fetish. On the far side and a little in front of the chair, a claw-foot walking stick stands waiting for the grasping hand of its owner.

  Tom steps to the front of the chair. ‘Father, this is Alex Clayton and the conservator. Miss Clayton, my father, Donald Raeburn.’

  I pass Molly backwards to John and step forward, bandaged hand extended. ‘Mr Raeburn. Pleased to meet you.’

  The man in the chair was once big and powerful, that much is evident from the length of his legs and the width of his shoulders, but it’s as though he’s been pressed between the pages of one of his many books. His skin looks tissue-thin and his sparse white hair floats away from his skull, as though each strand wishes to escape. If it weren’t for his gaze, I’d describe Donald Raeburn as delicate, but from inside the shell of his body, green-brown eyes stare at me shrewdly, glittering with something more than mere interest or intellect. He may be old, but Raeburn senior is not someone to be taken lightly. He holds his wizened paw out to me, not far, just enough so I have to step in and stoop to complete the handshake. His hand rests briefly in mine without gripping, but somehow the touch doesn’t feel weak. It feels contained. I begin to wonder how frail Donald Raeburn really is. After all, his son did say he could get about, he simply chooses not to.

  ‘Do you have my painting?’

  Okay, no small talk, and apparently no chairs or refreshments. I’m guessing visitors are a rare occurrence Chez Raeburn.

  ‘I have brought the portrait, yes.’ I see his eyes spark in response. ‘But an unforeseen problem means it
hasn’t been fully cleaned. You can inspect it today and if you still want to buy it and we agree on a price, John will finish the cleaning and we’ll get Molly Dean back in her frame and delivered to you.’ I throw her name out there deliberately, just to see what happens. So far, all my conversations with Raeburn junior have been about a portrait of a woman. The name Molly Dean has never been mentioned. I can’t see Tom, so I hope John is watching for a reaction, and I hope it’s as good as the one I get from Donald Raeburn. When I say her name he stiffens, just for a moment, and if I wasn’t looking closely I would have missed it. His lips twitch and I think he’s about to speak, but his son jumps in and kills it.

  ‘I’m sorry, what name did you say? Have you identified the sitter?’

  I step back and half turn, so I can eye both Donald and Tom. John is standing very still.

  ‘Yes, I have actually. Her name is Molly – or Mary – Dean. She was Colin Colahan’s lover, but unfortunately she died not long after he painted this portrait.’ I stare hard at Donald Raeburn. ‘That was another reason I wanted to discuss the painting with you personally. Molly Dean died a very violent death, and not everyone would be happy to have that sort of portrait hanging on their wall.’

  ‘Do I look like a sentimental man?’ His voice, like his body, has all the patina of age but none of its feebleness. It sounds like a whip designed to lash lesser humans into submission. ‘Show me the painting.’

  ‘As I said, cleaning is a work in progress.’ Next to my thigh, and hopefully out of Donald Raeburn’s line of sight, I make an upside-down stop sign with my hand. I don’t want John to unwrap Molly just yet. ‘It looks quite odd out of its frame and with half her face still dulled by old varnish. I wouldn’t normally show it to a client at this stage, but your son said you were quite insistent.’

  ‘Show. Me. The. Painting.’

  I splay the fingers of my hidden hand and hope John notices. I want Molly’s face to be the coup de grâce of this little encounter. ‘Just before we get to that, there’s one other thing I need to mention.’ I glance at Tom but he’s looking quite relaxed, hands in pockets and rocking back on his heels. ‘When we removed the frame to clean the portrait, we found something. Something we believe Molly put there herself.’

  ‘How fascinating!’ Tom is definitely not a player in this game.

  ‘Yes, it was quite fascinating.’ I’m watching Donald Raeburn closely as I speak, but other than those fierce eyes he’s giving nothing away. ‘It was a sheaf of handwritten notes she’d made, probably while preparing to write an article about somebody.’ I turn to the son. ‘She was an aspiring journalist and author, you know.’

  Tom Raeburn nods and looks genuinely interested, but I’ve already turned back to his father. His scrawny hands have flexed into claws on the arms of his La-Z-Boy and I can see the rapid rise and fall of his chest beneath his navy cardigan and hear the agitated rasp of his breathing.

  ‘The really funny thing about all of it, is that Molly’s notes could almost have been written about you, Mr Raeburn.’

  ‘What?’ It’s Tom again but I ignore him. John moves forward so he is standing slightly behind on my left. He is holding Molly in front of his chest, but she is still hidden under the blanket. I wait, hoping Donald Raeburn will say or do something, wondering how far I’m going to have to push before he does.

  ‘Father?’ Tom steps around John and me and moves to the side of Donald’s chair. ‘What’s going on? Did you know the woman in the portrait? Why didn’t you say so?’

  ‘Shut up, Thomas.’

  Tom’s jaw snaps shut like he’s just been slapped and he takes a half-step back from the chair, out of reach.

  ‘It seems from these extensive notes that Molly Dean was working on an article about your father.’ I turn my focus back to Donald. ‘She’d spoken to a lot of people about you. Business people, women on the social scene, a number of Melbourne’s movers and shakers of the day. You really don’t remember Molly?’

  Donald’s hands have now curled into fists so tight his knuckles are turning white. ‘I met a lot of people back then. You can’t expect me to remember one girl, a reporter at that. Reporters make things up all the time.’

  He hasn’t flat-out denied knowing Molly, so I decide to hit Donald Raeburn with everything I’ve got. ‘Why would she make up a story about talking to you? Twice? Why would she say she’d spoken to all these other people, heard all these other snippets? If it was all imagined, who’d publish it? And why hide her notes?’

  ‘I want the painting and, as part of the transaction, I want the notes too. Now. Today. Thomas, get the cheque book.’

  ‘The notes are not for sale. They’re important historical documents. And you know what? I think the painting is off the market too. Looking around I don’t think it would hang well with the rest of your collection. I think you may regret your decision to take on Molly Dean, and I’d just hate for that to happen.’

  While I’ve been talking, Tom has sidled closer to John. ‘What am I missing here?’ he murmurs. John looks at me, eyebrows raised.

  ‘Your son wants to know what’s going on,’ I say. ‘Do you want to tell him?’

  There is silence except for the rasp of Donald’s breath and the hiss and pop of the gas fire.

  ‘I can quote directly from Molly’s notes if you like, or just give Tom the big picture version and let him draw his own conclusions.’

  Donald’s chin comes up and one side of his lip curls ever so slightly. ‘I’ve had enough of this. Get out. Thomas, see them out.’ His voice is like iron and Tom turns to comply, the habits of a lifetime kicking in. John and I don’t budge.

  ‘Hang on Tom, don’t you want to hear the story?’

  Tom stops, and his head swivels from me to his father and back again, his mouth open like a sideshow clown.

  ‘It’s the tale of an aspiring young author who was apparently looking for the story that would launch her career.’

  ‘Get out.’ Donald’s voice is louder, angrier, but unlike Tom I’m unaccustomed to taking orders, least of all from aggressive men who think they own the world and everyone in it.

  ‘She decided to write about Donald Raeburn. A brash young man who’d hauled himself up by his bootstraps in record time to become a real source of wealth and power in 1930s Melbourne. But Donald Raeburn Esquire didn’t give interviews. She asked, but he knocked her back. So she started talking to other people. And she started to hear things she hadn’t expected. Secrets and rumours, sure, only she was hearing the same stories from all sorts of different people. And all those stories were drawing a very different picture of Donald Raeburn. Molly suddenly found herself with a far bigger story.’

  John is pressing his elbow insistently into my side. This is way more intense than I thought it would be, but I’ve come too far to stop. I look at Tom, his eyes are wide.

  ‘Here.’ I pull the copy of Molly’s notes from my pocket and hand it to him. I have to give the papers an extra flap before he takes hold. ‘She wrote it all down and I photocopied it for your father, but perhaps you’d like to read it first.’

  ‘Give those to me, Thomas.’ Donald is deathly calm, his icy tone brooking no argument.

  Tom grasps the papers tightly to his chest, the crumpling sound cutting across the air like a sudden burst of radio static. ‘What happened?’ His voice is a bare whisper.

  ‘After hearing all those stories, Molly decided to do what any good journalist would do. Get confirmation. She went back to Donald Raeburn and asked again if he’d be prepared to talk to her. Only this time, she didn’t claim to be writing a society puff piece, she probably told him at least some of what she’d found out about his business dealings. About the way he made his fortune. And some other things she’d picked up from the women he’d dated. He threatened her then threw her out.’

  ‘The lies of jealous people an
d Melbourne old money who thought my shiny new pennies weren’t good enough. Nothing was ever published. Not a word.’ Donald has found a more reasonable tone although it has not lost the superior edge. ‘I’ll sue you if any of it gets out.’

  ‘Can’t sue me for Molly’s words if they should happen to find their way to the press,’ I shrug.

  Tom has uncrumpled the notes from his chest and is reading the top sheet. His face seems to be getting whiter as I watch, and he’s only on page one. He glances up at me then slowly turns to his father. ‘How much of this is true?’ Donald Raeburn ignores him, so Tom turns to me. ‘Is this true?’

  ‘All I can tell you is that, from what I’ve read, Molly clearly believed it was true, and she was meticulous about cross-checking the various details she uncovered. She was also worried enough about what she’d found to hide these notes. It’s just a pity they stayed hidden for so long.’ I speak quietly. I feel sorry for Tom, caught in the crossfire.

  ‘What happened after my father threw her out? Why didn’t she write the article?’

  ‘Do you want to tell your son, Mr Raeburn?’

  ‘Nothing to tell. She made up lies, I sent her packing. End of story.’

  ‘Except it wasn’t the end, was it? Oh and thanks for confirming the details so far.’ I look at Tom again. ‘Molly Dean was brutally murdered less than a week later. They never found out who did it.’

  ‘Rubbish! They had a man bang to rights!’ Donald is almost spitting.

  ‘Except a mysterious stranger posted £1000 bail within minutes of charges being laid. Oh, and they conveniently let the man go on day one of the criminal trial, charges dropped, just like that. No more questions, no more investigation, no more suspects. I think either that man was set up,’ I lean a bit closer to Donald Raeburn, ‘or perhaps someone put him up to it. Paid him and assured him that if the police came knocking, the problem could be made to disappear. Someone with the connections to have a murder investigation buried and make the files disappear. Someone with a lot to lose if Molly Dean published her article.’