FASHION-DETECTIVE

Danielle Whitfield

Contents 

Foreword 1 

Introduction 2 

Examination report: 13 

The case of the fake Worth 

by Annette Soumilas 

Short story: 17 

The real McCoy 

by Garry Disher 


The case of the poisonous pigment 

by Bronwyn Cosgrove 


The bequest 

by Sulari Gentill 


The secret in the doll’s dress 

by Kate Douglas 


Paper piecing 

by Lili Wilkinson 


The case of the fraudulent fur 

by Kate Douglas 


Escape from Grantchester Manor 

by Kerry Greenwood 

List of works 43

Foreword 

Fashion Detective is an exhibition that heralds an innovative new approach to 

the interpretation and display of fashion and textiles at the National Gallery of 

Victoria. A departure from the usual conventions of chronology, artistry and 

technique, Fashion Detective is instead a set of investigations that challenge us to 

reappraise what we see and know. 

The exhibition takes a large number of unattributed nineteenth-century 

garments and accessories from the NGV’s collection as the basis for a series 

of ‘cases’. Encountered as small vignettes, these cases tell different stories of analysis 

and deduction, and present alternate ways of reading fashion. Some rely on objectbased 

study and forensics to reach conclusions; others are purposefully speculative. 

It is always pleasing to see contemporary artists engage with the NGV collection in 

creative ways, and Fashion Detective introduces a new model for this. By inviting four 

leading Australian crime writers to create short stories based upon the works on 

display, the exhibition explores the mysteries of our collection in surprising ways. 

Melbourne has always had a strong affinity with crime fiction, and it is great to see 

current exponents of the genre bring their rich imaginations to this project. 

This publication brings together the many investigative layers which inform 

Fashion Detective. Elucidating the curatorial rationale behind the exhibition, 

here forensics and fiction are presented as a two-fold encounter with the objects 

on display. While succinct case studies by the Gallery’s Textile Conservation team 

provide fascinating insight into the scientific nature of conservation work and what 

is revealed by close examination, the four specially commissioned crime fictions 

introduce narrative possibilities that speak to our interest in the social life 

of clothing. 

I extend particular thanks to authors Garry Disher, Kerry Greenwood, Sulari 

Gentill and Lili Wilkinson for their inspired responses to this project. I also offer 

thanks to the exhibition curator, Danielle Whitfield, and the Textile Conservation 

team led by Bronwyn Cosgrove, as well as to the entire NGV staff involved in 

bringing this exhibition and publication to life. I am delighted to see such creative 

collaboration and invite you to enjoy this unique approach and the many mysteries 

it explores. 

Tony Ellwood 

Director, National Gallery of Victoria

Introduction 

Never trust to general impressions, 

my boy, but concentrate yourself upon details. 

Sherlock Holmes, A Case of Identity (1892) 

Danielle Whitfield 

2

Introduction 

Danielle Whitfield 

You see, but you do not observe. 

The distinction is clear. 

Sherlock Holmes, The Scandal in Bohemia (1892) 

ny gallery archive contains a large number of works that 

remain unattributed – ‘makers unknown’. Anonymous 

and often inscrutable, these objects have the capacity 

to excite our curiosity at a time when the world is 

besieged by brands and logos. Within fashion especially, 

the contrast between today’s superstar couturiers and the nameless 

dressmakers and tailors of earlier centuries could not be greater. 

Fashion Detective takes a selection of miscellaneous nineteenth-century 

garments and accessories from the National Gallery of Victoria’s 

collection as the starting point for a series of investigations. Using 

material evidence, forensics and newly commissioned fictions as 

alternate interpretative strategies, the exhibition is an encounter with 

the art of detection. 

Taking its cue from tropes of Victorian crime fiction, Fashion Detective 

is divided into a series of ‘cases’ that present the visitor with 

different investigative paths and narrative opportunities. From fakes 

and forgeries to poisonous dyes, concealed clues and mysterious 

marks to missing persons, the exhibition places objects under close 

examination. Each case follows a specific course of analysis that 

encourages thinking differently about what we see and what 

we know. 

Fashion Detective is not intended as a comprehensive study of 

nineteenth-century dress. Rather, it is an exhibition about modes of 

investigation; about leads, encounters, discoveries, stories, science 

and speculation. It is about the detective work that curators and 

conservators undertake, and what this can reveal. Ultimately it is 

about questions – many of which will never be answered. 

Reading fashion 

Never trust to general impressions, my boy, but 

concentrate yourself upon details. 

Sherlock Holmes, A Case of Identity (1892) 

Learning how to ‘read’ a dress has been an important concern for 

fashion studies scholars in recent years. Drawing on the work of art 

historian Jules Prown, Valerie Steele, Director and Chief Curator 

of the Museum at the Fashion Institute of Technology, New York, 

describes the process as involving three stages: description, deduction 

and speculation. 1 

The description stage records the physical characteristics and features 

of a garment, including its measurements, medium, construction 

details, style, colour, texture, use and wear. It establishes whether 

or not an object is complete, whether it has been altered or repaired 

and flags questions about authenticity. The deduction stage involves 

reflection on the sensory interaction between ‘object and the 

perceiver’. 2 It considers the garment in terms of how it would have 

been worn, what it might feel like to wear, what it reveals about the 

wearer’s taste or social status and how it compares to other examples. 

The speculation stage involves ‘framing [a] hypothesis and questions’ 

for testing against external evidence. These questions in turn drive 

specific paths of research. 3 

Fashion and forgery 

I’d be more worried if my product 

wasn’t being copied. 

Miuccia Prada 4 

Unknown (France), Bodice, c.1885 (label detail) 

The central question in ‘The case of the fake Worth’ is about 

attribution: is the labelled Bodice, c.1885, a fake couture garment? 

Is the label a forgery? While the answer is more complex than a 

simple yes or no, detailed object-based analysis was essential to the 

conclusion. Clues gleaned from the garment’s construction (stitching, 

pattern pieces, boning, finishing techniques, alterations, labelling and 

fabric choice), stylistic analysis (knowledge of the designer’s oeuvre) 

and historical research all formed part of the material evidence. 

Mary Richardson, Sampler, 1783 

3

complex and linked to different historical modes of circulation and 

exchange, not least its acquisition by the NGV in 1963. 

Knowing whether or not something is a forgery forever changes 

the way we look at it, but learning to tell the difference between an 

original and a copy is, as Nelson Goodman famously argued, a matter 

of learning how to perceive. 9 

Fashion and forensics 

C27H25N4(SO)01/2 

Chemical composition of Perkin’s mauve 

(left) François Pinet, Paris (shoemaker), Jean-Louis François Pinet (designer) Boots 1867 

(right) Pair of authentic Pinet shoes exhibited by S.D. & L.A. Tallerman in Sydney, 1878 

Counterfeiting was rife in the latter part of the nineteenth century. 

In 1896 Georges Vuitton, son of Louis Vuitton, designed and 

registered the house monogram – a pattern of interlocking LVs 

interspersed with quatrefoils and flowers – in response to the 

counterfeiting of their bespoke travel goods. Similarly, in September 

1878 celebrated Parisian shoe designer Jean-Louis François Pinet 

engaged retailers Samuel D. and Lewis A. Tallerman (of London and 

Melbourne) as: 

His sole agents for the New Zealand and Australian colonies 

[after] having received information that the name and brand of his 

house [was] being fraudulently used and placed upon boots and 

shoes of low price and inferior description. 5 

Today, fashion fakes present an even bigger problem. Luxury brands 

are among the most counterfeited products. In 2013 the counterfeit 

goods industry accounted for two per cent of the world trade. 6 

For Sherlock Holmes, the great nineteenth-century literary detective, 

acuity, intelligence and the aura of scientific enquiry were the factors by which 

he decoded evidence – be it a watch, hat, stick or the appearance or 

clothing of someone. 10 Suitably then, forensics also plays a crucial role 

in Fashion Detective. Utilising methods inherent to textile conservation, 

including microscopy, x-radiography, scanning electron microscope 

(SEM) and ultraviolet (UV) scanning; chemical analysis in the form 

of x-ray fluorescence (XRF), Fourier transform infrared spectroscopy 

(FTIR), chromatography and specialist digital photographic processes, 

the exhibition considers the myriad ways that objects can be decoded. 

Unknown, Doll, 19th century 

X-ray of Doll, 19th century 

Cases such as ‘The secret in the doll’s dress ’ highlight what x-radiography 

and forensic photography can add to our understanding of an object. 

‘Reading’ the aged paper fragments secreted between layers of 

diamond-shaped silk patchwork in this dress produced unexpected 

information about its likely place and date of creation. Likewise, SEM 

analysis and microscopy enabled a positive medium ID in ‘The case of 

the fraudulent fur’, and also revealed new information about industry 

practice and social tastes. 

Fashion and colour 

Unknown, (China), Louis Vuitton, Paris (after), Speedy handbag, c.2014 

Handbags and wallets originating from China typically top the list, with 

Louis Vuitton products the most popular, particularly the Speedy and Alma 

monogram handbags. 7 As Dana Thomas writes: 

By putting an emphasis on the logo and spending millions to 

advertise it, luxury companies made their brands, rather than 

products, the objects of desire. They also created a demand that 

they couldn’t meet and a product average consumers couldn’t 

afford … Counterfeiters stepped in. 8 

Although highly problematic, contemporary fashion fakes are, for the 

majority, an acceptable consumer commodity. The House of Worth 

and Bobergh Bodice, however, is not – its circumstances are more 

Two investigations in Fashion Detective employ chemical analysis to 

explore the relationship between colour and fashionable aesthetics in 

the nineteenth century. Fashion today is based on a continuous cycle 

of new trends in which colour plays a key role: ‘grey is the new black’. 

Yet colour in fashion changed most radically in the nineteenth century 

following the accidental discovery of aniline purple (later named 

mauveine) in 1856 by a young Scottish chemist, William Henry Perkin 

(1838–1907), while he searched for a malaria cure. 11 Perkin’s finding 

was the catalyst for the emergence of a low-cost, artificial dyestuffs 

industry which produced colours that rapidly replaced traditional dyes 

made from plants and insects. Within a decade, textiles saturated with 

the new, gaudy chemical hues of synthetic colours, such as magenta, 

fuchsia, violet, aniline black, Bismark brown, methyl blue and 

malachite green, were in widespread use. 12 

4

Unknown, England, Dress, c.1865 (detail) 

Unknown, Australia, Dress, c.1865 (detail) 

By 1859 English newspapers such as Punch were satirising the extent to 

which Perkin’s vivid purple shade was dominating fashionable dress. (A 

novelty exacerbated by purple’s symbolic associations with aristocracy 

and royalty.) But what exactly did this colour look like? While a small 

swatch of silk dyed with a batch of the original dye is housed in the 

Imperial College chemistry archives, London, and an image of this 

can be seen on Wikipedia, records of Perkins purple are scant and 

identifying the colour by the naked eye is an impossible task. Employing 

chromatography and spectroscopy to analyse our holdings of mid to late 

nineteenth-century purple garments and accessories, this case attempted 

to locate evidence of this pivotal moment in fashion history. 

‘The case of the poisonous pigment ’ concerns the widespread use of 

green arsenical pigments as colouring agents in the early part of 

the nineteenth century. Discovered by Carl Scheele in 1778, and in 

widespread use by 1800, copper arsenate dyes such as Scheele’s Green, 

and later Schweinfurt green, were exceedingly popular due to their 

vivid hues. Cheap to make and chemically stable, the dyes were not 

only adopted by painters, cloth makers, wallpaper designers and dyers, 

but were also used to colour countless everyday goods, such as soap, 

candles, children’s toys, confectionary and packaging. 

By the late 1850s, after a three-year-old boy died after ingesting 

pigment flakes, anxiety about the prevalence of arsenic was expressed 

in British news articles, pamphlets and books. In 1862 a coroner’s 

inquest found that a woman died as a result of sucking an artificial 

grape coloured with Scheele’s Green. 13 At around the same time 

Australian newspapers reprinted reports from British medical journals 

warning of the dangers of arsenical green wallpapers (‘Put it up on 

your walls and you are lining your rooms in pure death’ 14 ) and listing 

the ghastly symptoms of arsenic poisoning, including ‘irritation, 

gastric derangement, ulceration, inflammation, palpitations, joint pain, 

irritability and weakness, and in the worst cases, memory loss, spasms 

and partial paralysis.’ 15 

Poisonings were also linked to the wearing of arsenical garments. 

London physician George Rees found green muslins to be especially 

hazardous after analysing a sample that contained sixty grains 

of Scheele’s green per square yard. The pigment was so loosely 

incorporated that ‘it could be dusted out with great facility’. 16 

Our fair charmers in green whirl through the giddy 

waltz … actually in a cloud of arsenical dust … 

Well may the fascinating wearer … be called a 

killing creature … she carries in her skirts poison 

enough to slay the whole of the admirers she may 

meet with in half a dozen ballrooms. 17 

John Leech, The Arsenic Waltz. The new Dance of Death. (Dedicated to the green wreath and dress-mongers.), 1862 

5

With this in mind, ‘The case of the poisonous pigment ’ asks if there is 

anything dyed arsenic green in the NGV collection, putting dresses, 

parasols, shoes, millinery and wallpapers through an XRF machine 

in order to ascertain traces of the deadly copper arsenate pigment. 

The results revealed something of the chemical composition of the 

nineteenth-century fashion palette. 

Material memories 

The garment is a ghost of all the multiple lives 

it may have had. Nothing is shiny and new; 

everything has a history. 18 

A less deadly form of evidence relates to factors of wear and use. 

As fashion scholar Amy de la Haye writes: 

Perhaps more than any other medium, worn clothing offers 

tangible evidence of lives lived, partly because its very materiality 

is altered by, and bears imprints of, its original owner. A 

garment’s shaping can become distorted in an echo of personal 

body contours. It can become imbued with personal scent, and 

bear marks of wear, from fabric erosion at the hem, cuffs and 

neck, to stains that are absorbed or linger on the surface of the 

cloth. 19 

Just as a study of the Bodice reveals that significant alterations were 

made for different wearers over two decades, other works in Fashion 

Detective disclose information about how they have been worn, 

used and cared for over their lifetimes. Within the exhibition, a 

wall of shoes interrogates the physical and scientific effects of time: 

threadbare surfaces, discolouration, corrosion, soiling, scuffing and 

creasing. These traces speak to the particularity of fashion collections 

and, by default, to the complex decisions that conservators and 

curators face in caring for these objects. 

Harrods, London, Travelling hatcase, 1901–04 

Unknown, Shoes, 1880–93 

Patterns of collecting also fall under scrutiny in Fashion Detective. 

Within the exhibition, ‘The case of the missing man’ examines 

fashion and the archive as means by which histories and memories 

are formed. Acknowledging that archives are by their very nature 

fragmentary, formed over time through a combination of institutional 

acquisition policies, curatorial impulse and voluntary donation, the 

case investigates why the NGV collection includes so little nineteenthcentury 

menswear. 20 Ostensibly a case about a lack of evidence, this 

enquiry considers what is salient about a group of four waistcoats, 

and asks: Are collections about what we see, or do not see? 

Unknown, England, Waistcoat, c.1845 

6

Within the exhibition, four ghostly white dresses recall this phenomenon. 

Each has a fragmentary piece of provenance information associated with 

it that forms one thread of a greater mystery: a torn wedding photograph, 

a newspaper clipping, a family story and a catalogue entry. 

Writing about fashion in fiction, Claire Hughes notes: ‘Descriptions 

of dress help us to fill out our pictures of the imagined words of fiction 

… They lend tangibility and visibility to character and context’. 26 

This potential of fashion to serve narrative ends is evident today in 

contemporary runway collections, where garments enact storylines, 

and in short films and photography where fashion is frequently 

cast as the central protagonist. The four short fictions in Fashion 

Detective draw on the complicity between clothing, fashion, crime and 

mystery in the nineteenth century. Scripting evocative and exciting 

new contexts for the works on display, these stories offer parallel 

encounters with the facts at hand. Here, fashion forms the very heart 

of fiction as the material evidence in a greater mystery. 

The game is afoot. 

Photograph of Wedding dress, 1939–74 

Fashion and fiction 

Although empirical modes of investigation underscore Fashion Detective, 

the exhibition is also deliberately speculative. It accepts we may never 

know the answers to our questions about the garments on display – 

who were they made by, who wore them, where are they from? – and 

so turns to fiction as a way of creating ‘cultural biographies’ for the 

works on display. 21 Exploiting the historical synergy between the 

establishment of professional detective agencies 22 and the rise of literary 

detectives in the nineteenth century, 23 Fashion Detective invited four of 

Australia’s leading crime writers – Garry Disher, Sulari Gentill, Kerry 

Greenwood and Lili Wilkinson – to create new short fictions based on 

objects from the NGV collection. 

Throughout the nineteenth century, clothing, along with other physical 

data, was pivotal to both crime solving and crime fiction, and a 

number of famous London cases rested on the discovery of clothing 

clues. In 1849 the infamous Bermondsey murderess Maria Manning 

who, along with her husband, killed her lover, was captured by way 

of a bloodstained dress she had stashed in a railway station locker. 24 

Similarly, the horrific Road Hill case of 1860, concerning the murder 

of three-year-old Saville Kent, centred on a missing nightdress. 

Fictional detective tales emulated forensic police work by incorporating 

material clues such as clothing and hair, objects that could be singled out 

and studied for information, into their storylines. In Charles Martel’s 

The Detective’s Notebook (1860), a button left at the crime scene holds the 

key to the case, and in Wilkie Collins’s The Diary of Anne Rodway (1856) 

a murderer is brought to justice via the discovery of the missing end of a 

torn cravat. 

The detective genre was so popular that it also started fashion trends. 

Collins’s sensation novel The Woman in White (1860), for instance, caused: 

Every possible commodity to be labelled ‘Woman in White’. 

There were Woman in White cloaks and bonnets, Woman in 

White perfumes and all manner of toilet requisites … music shops 

displayed Woman in White Waltzes and Quadrilles. 25 

Unknown, Bookmarks, c.1890 

Notes 

1 Valerie Steele, ‘A museum of fashion is more than a clothes-bag’, Fashion Theory: The Journal of Dress, Body and Culture, 

vol. 2, no. 4, 1998, p. 327. More recently, scholars have called for interdisciplinary approaches that recognise fashion’s 

engagement with contemporary visual and cultural discourses. 

2 Jules Prown, ‘Style as evidence’, The Winterthur Portfolio, vol. 15, 1980, p. 71. 

3 ibid. 

4 Miuccia Prada quoted in Dana Thomas, Duluxe: How Luxury Lost its Lustre, Allen Lane, London, 2007, p. 276. 

5 Samuel D. & Lewis A. Tallerman, ‘Notice: Pinet’s French boots’, Sydney Morning Herald, 25 Nov. 1878. I thank 

Bronwyn Cosgrove for drawing my attention to this article. Pinet also authorised Tallerman to take legal action 

against any persons found distributing counterfeit versions of his boots and shoes. 

6 Jack Ellis, ‘International – Counterfeiting statistics need to be backed up by consumer education’, 19 April 2013, 

World Trademark Review, , accessed 2 April 2014). 

7 Samuel Weigley, ‘The 10 most counterfeited products in America’, 24/7 Wall St, , 

accessed 14 Jan. 2014. 

8 Thomas, p. 274. 

9 Nelson Goodman quoted in Michael Wreen, ‘Goodman on forgery’, The Philosophical Quarterly, vol. 33, no. 133, 1983, 

p. 340. 

10 Stephen Knight, Crime Fiction Since 1800: Death, Detection Diversity, 2nd edn, Palgrave Macmillan, New York, 2010, 

p. 56. 

11 Perkins was quick to realise the commercial application of his discovery. He filed a patent for the dye and within 

two years had established a small dye-making factory outside of London which synthesised aniline from coal tar – a 

readily available by-product of the coal gas and coke industries. 

12 Akiko Fukai, ‘The colours of a period as the embodiment of dream’, in Fashion in Colours: Viktor & Rolf & KCI, Kyoto 

Costume Institute, 2004, pp. 274–8. 

13 Paul Bartrip, ‘How green was my valance?: environmental arsenic poisoning and the Victorian domestic ideal’, The 

English Historical Review, vol. 109, no. 443, Sep. 1994, pp. 891–913. 

14 ‘Death on our walls’, Sydney Morning Herald, 26 July 1861, p. 8 (reprinted from London Review, 11 May 1861). 

15 ‘Arsenic in wallpapers’, Sydney Morning Herald, 5 Oct. 1871, p. 6 (reprinted from British Medical Journal). 

16 James C. Whorton, The Arsenic Century: How Victorian Britain Was Poisoned at Home, Work, and Play, Oxford University 

Press, Oxford, 2010, p. 181. 

17 ibid. 

18 Hussein Chalayan quoted in in Caroline Evans (ed.), Fashion at the Edge: Spectacle, Modernity and Deathliness, Yale 

University Press, New Haven, 2003, p. 57. 

19 Amy de la Haye, ‘Vogue and the V&A vitrine’, Fashion Theory; The Journal of Dress, Body and Culture, vol. 10, no. 1, 

2006, p. 129. 

20 The NGV collection has approximately 1200 Western garments and accessories from the period 1800–1900. 

Menswear and accessories account for 15 per cent of this collection. 

21 See Igor Kopytoff, ‘The cultural biography of things: commoditization as process’, in Arjun Appadurai (ed.), The Social 

Life of Things: Commodities in Cultural Perspective, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1988, pp. 64–91. 

22 The French Sûreté was established in 1811, and Scotland Yard sent out its first plain-clothes detectives in 1842. 

23 Edgar Allan Poe’s The Murders in the Rue Morge (1841) is generally accepted as the first iteration of this new literary 

genre. 

24 Kate Summerscale, The Suspicions of Mr Whicher; or, The murder at Road Hill House, Bloomsbury, London, 2008, 

p. 69. 

25 Stewart Marsh Ellis, Wilkie Collins, Le Fanu and Others, Constable, London, 1931. The Woman in White was reprinted six 

times in its first six months of publication. 

26 Clair Hughes, Dressed in Fiction, Berg, New York, 2006, p. 1. 

7

Unknown, England, Carriage dress, c.1830 

9

Unknown, Australia, Dress, c.1865 

10

Unknown, Australia, Dress, c.1878 

11

Unknown, Australia, Wedding dress, c.1885 

12

Mme Delbarre, London (dressmaker), Mourning gown, 1885–90 

13

14 

The case 

of the fake 

Worth

Examination report 

Annette Soumilas 

Case 

The case of the fake Worth 

Item 

Bodice, c.1885 

Summary 

Bodice, presented to the National Gallery of Victoria by Miss 

M. Bostock in 1963, and labelled the House of Worth and Bobergh, 

poses a number of curatorial questions relating to authenticity: is 

the label for this bodice authentic? Does the styling of the bodice 

correspond with the date of the label? Was the label attached to 

the bodice at the time of its manufacture, or at a later date? Did 

the bodice have multiple owners? Historical and technical analysis 

of the garment and its label by the NGV’s Textile Conservation 

department suggests that the label may indeed be authentic, and 

possibly rare, and that the bodice may have passed through the 

hands of several owners. The problem, then, is determining the 

authenticity of this label and, by default, of the bodice itself. 

Background information 

English-born dressmaker Charles Frederick Worth (1825–95) was 

one of the most celebrated designers of the nineteenth century, 

known as the ‘father of haute couture’. His clients included royalty, 

the famous and the wealthy. Many examples of his work exist in 

museum collections today, mostly identifiable by couture labels. Our 

knowledge of his work is communicated by these primary sources. 

A nineteenth-century couture house’s public image, the protection 

of its designs, and all its industrial power were conveyed through 

its label. 1 The practice of attaching fake and counterfeit labels to 

garments existed at this time, as it still does today, to ‘authenticate’ 

garments of dubious origin, and thereby to increase their value. By 

signing his creations Worth placed himself on an equal footing with 

artists who sign and personify their work. From this gesture, the 

‘magic of labelling grew by creating an aura that then spread to the 

label’s products’. 2 

The system of labelling was used for mass-produced fashionable 

accessories, such as shoes and hats, from as early as 1780. 3 Worth 

continued this established tradition and, when he opened his own 

couture house in 1858 in partnership with the Swede Otto Gustaf 

(Gustave) Bobergh (1821–1881), he was the first to extend the 

practice of labelling to identify his garments. 

The distribution of clothes was a well-established practice in the 

nineteenth century. Labelled garments were not necessarily owned 

by one individual only. A hierarchy for cast-off garments existed to 

facilitate the disposal of clothes, which were frequently altered to 

fit a new owner. Worth and Bobergh boasted a wealthy clientele. 

Many serving women to royalty and the upper-classes received castoff 

garments from their employers. As these items of clothing could 

be sold to secondhand traders, they were a great source of profit to 

domestic staff. Many of these garments would eventually end up 

in the hands of rag-pickers or in the wardrobes of theatres. Along 

the way, labels identifying the garment would be transferred to 

‘authenticate’ the garment, thus enhancing its saleability. 4 This practice 

could easily have extended to the Worth client and her servants. 

Beyond construction details, fabric is also an important consideration 

in this investigation. Worth always retained a preference for figured 

textiles, which were quite popular during the 1850s but fell out 

of favour during the 1860s. In 1872 Worth attempted to relaunch 

‘figured, cut velvet’, but his clients did not share his enthusiasm, 

maintaining that ‘they did not (want) to be dressed like furniture’. 

Worth’s taste was vindicated in the 1880s and 1890s when the fashion 

for these textiles prevailed. 5 

The genre of fabric which enjoyed the greatest degree of favour 

during the 1880s was unquestionably velvet and plush. In the October 

1881 issue of L’Art de la Mode, Jenny Lensia wrote: 

Velvet is the shimmering setting that best sets off the 

beauty of the woman; simple in its magnificent elegance, 

it marvellously highlights the sculptural forms of those 

who are truly beautiful … All women dressed in velvet 

appear majestic. 

Luis Jimenez y Aranda, Le Carreau du Temple, Paris, 1890, private collection 

Unknown (France), Bodice, c.1885 (detail) 

15

Evidence 

According to Worth’s biographer Diana De Marly, the first original 

Worth label appeared in 1860, after Worth became couturier to 

the Empress Eugenie (1826–1920). 6 The label was stamped in gold 

capital letters: ‘WORTH AND BOBERGH, 7 RUE DE LA PAIX, 

PARIS’, and included Eugenie’s coat of arms. Bodice’s label is stamped 

in gold on white Petersham ribbon with the words ‘WORTH AND 

BOBERGH, 7 RUE DE LA PAIX AU PREMIERE’. 

Unknown (France), Bodice, c.1885 (label detail) 

Unknown (France), Bodice, c.1885 (detail) 

Worth & Bobergh, Paris, Bodice, 1860s, collection of Martin Kramer 

The font and use of gold on white Petersham is thus consistent with 

an authentic Worth label. The words ‘Worth and Bobergh’ and 

the inclusion of the address, specifically au premiere (the first floor), 

suggests that this label was used by Worth during the two years 

(1858–60) when he first opened his house in rue de la Paix, before the 

Empress Eugenie became his client. 

The garment itself is made from black figured cut silk velvet 

featuring a rose and fern – motif which during the nineteenth century 

represented sorrow and mourning. The bodice lining is constructed 

from silk, whilst the sleeves are lined with cotton. The jacket is 

fastened at its centre-front by dark blue velvet-covered buttons, and 

features internal boning of baleen and metal. The rose and fern motif, 

coupled with the black colour of the cloth also suggests that the bodice 

could have been worn during the late 1850s and 1860s for mourning. 

X-ray of Bodice, c.1885 (detail) 

16

Unknown (France), Bodice, c.1885 (interior detail) 

Unknown, Australia, Dress, c.1865 (detail of bodice pattern showing no back seam) 

Unknown, Australia, Dress, c.1885, (detail of bodice pattern showing centre back seam and peplum) 

Unknown, France, Bodice, c.1885 (detail of bodice pattern showing no back seam and peplum addition) 

Bodice shows evidence of extensive alterations that resulted from 

restyling and refitting, probably executed at intervals between 

c.1860 and c.1885. Unfortunately, only traces of hallmark couture 

dressmaking techniques are evident due to these extensive alterations. 

Conclusion 

If the label is authentic, it would have been in use during the initial 

two years of Worth and Bobergh’s partnership. During these years, 

the Worth establishment was, according to De Marly, ‘far from being a 

stately salon’. 7 However, Worth’s clever self-promotion soon attracted 

a wealthy and fashionable clientele. Although the bodice has been 

extensively altered, traces of styling from c.1860 are evident, as are 

alterations that correspond to styling of the mid 1880s. The fabric from 

which the bodice is constructed is of very high quality and its colour 

was fashionable in the later decades of the century. The rose and fern 

motif suggests that the bodice could have been worn for mourning 

in the 1860s, and later as a fashionable choice during the 1880s. It is 

likely that the garment changed hands several times. The label alone, 

and the cloth from which it is constructed, has enough value to have 

sustained alterations and wear over twenty-five years. 

Whether the label was attached to the bodice at the time of its 

manufacture remains indeterminable. 

The NGV’s Textile Conservation department would like to thank textile and costume 

collector Martin Kamer for his generous advice. 

NOTES 

1 Olivier Saillard & Anne Zazzo (eds), Paris Haute Couture, Flammarion, Paris, 2013, p. 26. 

2 ibid., p. 29. 

3 ibid., p. 26. 

4 E. A. Coleman, The Opulent Era: Fashions of Worth, Doucet and Pingat, Brooklyn Museum 

in association with Thames and Hudson, London, 1989, pp. 32–3. 

5 Saillard & Zazzo, p. 31. 

6 Diana De Marly, Worth: Father of Haute Couture, Elm Tree Books, London, 1980, p. 39. 

7 ibid., p. 34. 

17

THE 

REAL McCOY 

He followed her to a poky parlour furnished with sagging 

armchairs, a scarred table and dressmaking paraphernalia. 

On a bust, half completed, was a long-sleeved, tight-waisted 

woman’s jacket. Byrne went straight to it, the young woman 

watching bewilderedly. 

Garry Disher 

18

Garry Disher 

arvellous Smelbourne, thought Detective Byrne, kicking 

at a rat and stepping over the alleyway’s sewerage drain. 

The rat looked better fed than the Collingwood urchins 

who tugged at Byrne’s coat-tails. 

‘Who are you, Mister?’ 

A thin hand crept into his pocket. Byrne swiped it away 

and knocked on the warped door to No. 23. A young woman 

answered, whispering, ‘Yes, sir?’ 

Black hair in a French knot, a tense hand clutching her 

collar, and quite beautiful, Byrne realised. He removed his hat. 

‘Detective Byrne, Mrs McCoy.’ 

‘Is it about Albert?’ 

‘May I come in?’ 

He followed her to a poky parlour furnished with sagging 

armchairs, a scarred table and dressmaking paraphernalia. On a 

bust, half completed, was a long-sleeved, tight-waisted woman’s 

jacket. Byrne went straight to it, the young woman watching 

bewilderedly. 

‘A poor copy, Mrs McCoy.’ 

Her puzzlement increased. ‘Beg pardon, sir?’ 

He opened a wing of cloth to reveal the Worth label. ‘By 

representing these as real, you are breaking the law.’ 

All at sea, she collapsed into a chair. ‘But Albert said we 

was licensed.’ 

‘He lied’, said Byrne gently, eyeing photographs on a 

mantelpiece: McCoy the gentleman, a hand on the shoulder of 

his seated wife; McCoy the sea captain; McCoy standing guard 

over captured Kanakas on board a blackbirding ship. 

‘I swear to you, sir, I had no idea …’ 

She rallied, tilting her lovely face to him. ‘I sewed day and 

night so we might have food!’ 

Byrne nodded. All through the colony factories were closing, 

leaving the poorhouses and charities overstretched. He knelt beside her. 

‘Tell me where he is, Mrs McCoy, and I’ll see what I can do.’ 

She clutched him. ‘He has been gone this past week, and not 

a word.’ 

In the wind, thought Byrne, leaving this beautiful creature 

behind. He felt an unaccountable desire to embrace her, and 

sensed that she might welcome it, in her loneliness and misery. 

But he had work to do. ‘If Albert returns, Mrs McCoy, urge 

him to turn himself in.’ 

Unknown, France, Bodice, c.1885 

Byrne left the noxious laneways and returned to police headquarters, 

passing drunks, ratcatchers and constables evicting tenants behind on 

their rent. The Force had been shaken up in the years since the Kelly 

Outbreak, but still policemen were expected to do the work of the 

moneyed classes. If I were Police Commissioner, Byrne thought … 

He reported to his inspector, attended to paperwork and, as 

evening fell, headed to Carlton and his lonely room in an Elgin 

Street boarding house. But first he called reluctantly at a grand 

house in Macarthur Square, where he informed Mr Edmund 

Longmire, of the Longmire Emporium, that he’d made progress 

in his search for the man who, pretending to be a representative 

of a famous French haute couture company, had gone about the 

city selling fake Worth jackets. 

Longmire, a man composed of expensive cloth, whiskers and 

apoplectic cheeks, demanded to know what kind of progress. 

‘We know who he is, sir, and will soon have him behind bars.’ 

Longmire looked down his veiny nose at Byrne. ‘What good is 

that to me? I am a laughing stock and out of a hundred pounds.’ 

Lifting his hat to the man, Byrne left, swearing never to let 

Longmire know where Mrs McCoy lived. The thought of those 

meaty hands around her fine neck … No, a bully like Longmire 

would hire ruffians, he thought. 

19

Unknown, Australia, Waistcoat, 1890 

bluestone wall, a shotgun resting on his torso. His right thumb 

was hooked on the trigger and his face was a mess of bone and torn 

flesh. He wore black trousers and jacket over a bright waistcoat with 

yellow piping. 

Stewart & Co., Melbourne, Australia, 1879–96, No title (Young bearded man), carte-de-visite, 1880s 

Three days later the body was found by a child as she walked from 

her tenement home, near Queen Victoria Market, to the Pym Shoe 

Company in Fitzroy. Running down an alley behind Macarthur 

Square in the pre-dawn light, she’d tripped over a pair of legs. 

‘I were late for work, sir’, she told Byrne. 

She hawked and spat into a grimy rag, which she returned to 

her sleeve. Wheezing, trembling, she said, ‘Beg pardon, sir’. 

Byrne patted her arm. The girl probably stitched shoe leather 

twelve hours a day in poisonous, unventilated air. 

‘Just lying there with no face’, she continued, glancing back 

shakily, even though Byrne had moved her away from the body, 

out onto the Square. 

‘You saw no one?’ 

She shuddered. ‘Only me and him, sir.’ 

Byrne penned a note to her employer, arranged a cab for the girl 

and returned to the body. Albert McCoy sprawled where the shadows 

were deepest, his legs splayed on the cobblestones, his spine against a 

Beside the body was a sample case spilling Worth jackets and an 

album of cartes-de-visite depicting McCoy wearing the same waistcoat. 

Each had been printed by Stewart and Co. of Bourke Street, with the 

name M. Henri DeSalle written on the back. 

Byrne snorted. ‘Albert, Albert …’ 

Spotting a tuft of white in McCoy’s waistcoat pocket, Byrne 

pulled out a sheet of folded paper. 

‘To my darling wife’, he read: 

‘Pray Forgive me, dear Connie, but I am Burdened by Guilt and Regret 

for Deceiving you, Mr Longmire and many others. I have brought Shame to 

you and must now put it Right. You are yet Young and will find your way. 

I have led a full life. Your loving Husband, Albert.’ 

Connie, Constance, thought Byrne. He glanced over the wall. 

For Albert McCoy to shoot himself dead against Longmire’s back 

wall was a gesture either of atonement or contempt. He sighed. He 

was obliged to tell Longmire, but would take pleasure in reporting 

that no, a hundred pounds had not been found on the corpse. 

The next day, still tingling from the sensation of Connie McCoy’s 

slender, grieving form clutching him in the viewing room of the 

morgue that morning, Byrne attended the autopsy. 

‘One Albert Aloysius McCoy’, he told the police surgeon. 

The surgeon looked doubtfully at the torn face. ‘If you say so.’ 

20

A. J. White, London (hatter), Top hat, 1901–04 (detail) 

A. J. White, London (hatter), England, Top hat, 1901–04 

‘His personal effects attest to that,’ said Byrne, ‘and his widow 

identified his remains this morning’. 

‘A wife knows her husband’, the surgeon said. 

He sniffed the naked torso. ‘Carbolic. This fellow’s been in a 

hospital.’ 

The missing days, thought Byrne. And McCoy did look ill, a 

shadow of the man portrayed in his studio photographs. Gaunt, 

pale, scarred, with battered hands, the left noticeably larger than 

the right. 

As if reading Byrne’s mind, the surgeon pointed with a scalpel. 

‘Left-handed.’ 

And so the autopsy proceeded. Bored, queasy, Byrne elected 

to sift through McCoy’s belongings. A poor collection for the 

widow: the cartes-de-visite, a handkerchief, a sixpence and a small 

bottle of Mrs S. A. Allen’s World’s Hair Restorer. 

He snorted, examining a carte-de-visite for further evidence of 

McCoy’s vanity. A full head of hair, a stout chest, a fine suit and a 

cocky pose, right fist deep in a waistcoat pocket. 

Just then, Byrne’s skin crept. He swallowed. He peered at 

the waistcoat. The right pocket, habitually used by McCoy, was 

stretched and shapeless. He checked the hair restorer. It claimed to 

‘restore Gray, White, or Faded Hair to its youthful Colour, Gloss 

and Beauty’. 

Re-joining the surgeon, he asked, ‘This fellow is left-handed?’ 

‘Indeed.’ 

‘In poor health?’ 

‘Inadequate nourishment, hard manual labour, alcohol … I 

see it often in destitute men who, at death’s door, are removed to a 

rest house by hospitals anxious to avoid the expense of a funeral.’ 

‘Almost bald.’ 

‘Lost his hair long ago.’ 

‘Was he dead before he was shot?’ 

It was the surgeon’s turn to freeze, shears poised to crunch 

open McCoy’s ribcage. ‘An interesting question.’ 

Byrne hurried back to the Detective Branch where he used the 

telephone exchange to call the Port of Melbourne. A coastal tramp had 

steamed out of Port Phillip that morning, bound for Sydney; a clipper 

would sail for London that afternoon; and various smaller craft would 

be coming and going. 

Byrne raced out and hailed a cab. Feeling tense, powerless and 

bounced about by the carriage, he calmed himself by working out 

the stages of the deception. McCoy learns the police are closing 

in. A man given to deception, he fakes his own death using one of 

the city’s forgotten men. And with no face to aid identification, a 

harried policeman might rely on a handful of belongings. 

Another outrage for poor Constance. 

‘We’re here, Guv’nor’, the cabbie said. 

Gulls wheeled and screeched, smokestacks eddied, stevedores 

shouted, whistles blew. Spotting the London-bound clipper, 

passengers milling at the gangway, Byrne ran, casting about for a 

tall, vigorous man who no doubt had changed his appearance. 

But what stopped the detective was not McCoy. What stopped 

him was a lovely tilted chin glimpsed through the throng, a slender 

neck, a pretty cheek tucked against a solid arm. Here was the 

final stage of the deception. Gathering himself, Byrne straightened 

his tie, buttoned his jacket, removed his pistol and cuffs. ‘Albert 

McCoy, I presume?’ he said, confronting the husband, trying not 

to show his hurt to the wife. 

21

23 

The case of 

the poisonous 

pigment


Bronwyn Cosgrove 

Case 

The case of the poisonous pigment 

Item 

Daisy and Trellis wallpapers, designed 1864 

Summary 

In 2003 analysis of a sample of Morris & Co.’s Trellis, wallpaper 

by Andy Meharg of the School of Biological Sciences, University 

of Aberdeen, Scotland, identified the presence of copper arsenic salt 

in the green paint. 1 Morris & Co. wallpapers in the NGV collection 

were similarly suspected of containing arsenic compounds. This 

investigation set out to prove or disprove the theory. 


Illness or death relating to the abundance of arsenic-based pigments 

is a key popular narrative of the nineteenth century. Arsenic-based 

green pigments were widely used to dye fabrics and foodstuffs, such 

as sweets and desserts, and were also used extensively in paints and 

wallpapers. In 1858 an article in The Times estimated that British 

homes contained 100 million square miles of arsenic-rich wallpaper, 

and that a 100 m2 room might contain 2.5 kg of arsenic. 2 

Identification of arsenic-based pigments in William Morris wallpaper 

has been a point of discussion as it juxtaposes Morris’s background 

as a shareholder in Devon Great Consuls (DGC), a mine that became 

the world’s largest source of arsenic, against his utopian socialist ideals. 

There is evidence to suggest that Morris was not overly alarmed 

about the health risks associated with arsenic in wallpapers. Concerns 

advocated by articles in The Lancet during the 1860s and the general 

press through the 1870s, most notably an 1875 campaign in The Times 

that described DGC as containing enough arsenic to poison the entire 

world, seem to have had little impact on the designer. 3 In correspondence 

to his dye manufacturer Thomas Wardle in October 1885, 

Morris wrote: 

As to the arsenic scare, a greater folly is hardly possible to 

imagine: the doctors were being bitten by witch fever … It is 

too much to prove that the Nicholson family were poisoned by 

wallpapers: for if they were a great number of people would 

be in the same plight, and we would be sure to hear of it. 4 

Morris & Co., London (distributor), William Morris (designer), Jeffrey & Co., London (printer), 

Daisy, wallpaper, 1864 

Morris & Co., London (distributor), william morris (designer), Phillip Webb (designer), jeffrey & 

co., London (printer), Trellis, wallpaper, 1864 (designed) 

24

x 1E3 Pulses 

5 

Calcium 

19th century emerald green watercolour pigment 

Zinc 

Morris & Co Daisy – green leaf 

Morris & Co Trellis – green foliage 

4 

Barium 

Barium 

Arsenic 

Lead 

2 

Chronium 

Copper 

Lead 

Iron 

Zinc 

Arsenic 

Lead 

0 

2 4 6 8 10 12 14 16 

– keV– 

XRF spectra of emerald green pigment (copper arsenite) control against green samples from wallpapers 

Process 

After visual examination, NGV conservators employed x-ray fluorescence 

(XRF), a non-destructive form of analysis that is useful in the 

identification of metals, mineral and pigments, to identify the presence of 

arsenic in each object. XRF utilises a beam of radiation to force changes 

in the sample at an atomic level. These changes result in the release of 

secondary x-rays, the energies of which are characteristic of individual 

elements, and can be used to identify elements present in a sample. 

Evidence 

In contradiction to the analysis carried out by Professor Meharg, XRF 

analysis of the NGV Daisy and Trellis wallpapers did not indicate the 

presence of arsenic-based green pigments. Trellis is Morris’s earliest 

wallpaper pattern and one of his most popular. Registered in 1864, 

printing for both wallpapers was contracted to Jeffrey & Co., London. 

Printed with wood blocks and distemper – a mixture of pigment, 

animal glue and whiting (calcium carbonate) – the wallpapers’ 

patterned areas are thick and have a chalky surface. Jeffrey & Co. 

continued to print for Morris & Co. until 1927, when work was taken 

over by Arthur Sanderson & Sons. 5 

The absence of arsenic in the NGV samples could be attributable 

to a difference in the pigments used in different colour ways, or it 

could be explained by the fact that Morris & Co. discontinued the 

use of arsenic-based green pigments in 1883, replacing them with less 

toxic green pigments 7 . The presence of chromium in the spectra may 

indicate the use of the green pigment chrome oxide. That arsenic is 

not present in XRF spectra for the NGV samples could indicate that 

both wallpapers were produced after this date. 

Conclusion 

As arsenic is not present, these wallpapers would not have evolved 

volatile poisons in damp circumstances, however it is interesting to 

note the presence of lead, possibly in the form of lead oxide: a white 

pigment that may have been employed to create a pale shade of green. 

Due to its wide use in paints, lead has taken on the mantle of the 

domestic interior poison of the twentieth century. 

NGV Conservator undertaking XRF analysis 

I would like to express my thanks to Deb Lau, CSIRO, and Michael Varcoe-Cocks, 

Head of Conservation, NGV, for their assistance with this project. 

Notes 

1 Andy Meharg, ‘The arsenic green’, Nature, vol. 432, no. 688. 

2 Paul Bartrip, ‘How green was my valance?: environmental arsenic poisoning and the Victorian domestic ideal’, The 

English Historical Review, vol.109,issue 433, September 1994, p.904 

3 Patrick O’Sullivan, ‘William Morris and arsenic – guilty, or not proven? ’, William Morris Society Newsletter, 2012, p. 12. 

4 Norman Kelvin, The Collected Letters of William Morris, vol. 2, Princeton University Press, Princeton, NJ, pp. 463-4. 

5 LesleyHoskins, ‘Wallpaper’, in Linda Parry, William Morris, Philip Wilson Publishers in association with The Victoria 

and Albert Museum, London, pp. 198–223. 

6 O’Sullivan, p. 12. 

25

THE 

BEQUEST 

If your lodgings are not to your liking, sir, then depart. 

But allow me to remind you that the terms of Millicent’s 

bequest were unambiguous. 

Sulari Gentill

Sulari Gentill 

eginald Kane was untroubled as he stepped through 

the doorway of the very room in which she’d taken her 

life. It was, after all, just a room. He did not quail at the 

indelible bloodstains on the wall, but rather studied the 

grim splatter with an unseemly scientific curiosity. 

‘I shall take the rooms down the hallway.’ Edward Mayfield’s 

voice was cold, chilled with an unveiled contempt for the callous 

blackguard to whom he was about to hand the keys 

to his sister’s house. 

‘Very well.’ Kane rocked back on his heels, thumbs hooked 

in the pockets of his waistcoat. He considered the room itself. It 

was easily the best in the house, generously proportioned with a 

rather pleasant outlook over the rose gardens. The plasterwork 

on the ceiling was in excellent condition despite evidence of rising 

damp, and the walls … well, they could be papered. He shook 

his head. Poor Millicent – fragile, desperate girl. How carefully 

she had planned her melodramatic revenge, convinced that this 

room would conjure some torment on her behalf. He might 

have laughed if not for Edward Mayfield. ‘You’ll organise for the 

room to be decorated, I presume?’ he asked, tapping the soiled 

paintwork with the silver pistol-grip of his walking stick. 

‘Yes.’ Edward could barely look at the man. The vain peacock 

who called himself learned. Millie’s murderer. Millie’s heir. 

‘I shall send you some swatches.’ Kane inspected the French 

lace curtains disdainfully. ‘I’m afraid Millicent will not be 

remembered for her good taste.’ 

Edward’s jaw tensed, his dark eyes flashing dangerously as 

he looked Kane up and down. Millie’s bloody blue-eyed prince. 

‘Quite’, he said, but nothing more. His sister’s wishes had been 

clear and Edward was determined to fulfil this last duty. Under 

his wardenship Reginald Kane would serve the sentence Millicent 

had, in her despair, died to impose. 

Kane smiled. He knew well that Edward Mayfield loathed 

him, blamed him for a madwoman’s decision to destroy herself. 

Kane shook his head: the grieving fool was conspiring with his 

dead sister to punish the man who’d disappointed her. The whole 

family was insane. 

‘I say, Mayfield old chap, can’t we simply come to an 

understanding?’ he suggested. ‘Surely you have places you’d 

rather be? Surely there are debutantes in Melbourne who’d be 

more welcoming of your attentions than I?’ 

Edward flared, grief and fury suddenly unguarded on his 

face. ‘Do not think I will tire of my charge, Kane. Sleep a single 

night outside that room and I will be here to know, to deny you 

one more penny of Millicent’s fortune!’ 

Kane rolled his eyes. He was a man of science who no more 

believed in spirits than in fairies. He’d happily sleep a year in 

this room to inherit the estate and, he expected, he would sleep 

quite well. 

The wallpaper was imported, a William Morris design in Scheele’s 

green. It buried all signs of damp, and Millicent, beneath a pattern of 

clumped daisies. The effect was cheerful without being too feminine. 

Morris & Co., London (distributor), William Morris (designer), Jeffrey & Co., London (printer), 

Daisy, wallpaper, 1864 

The colour had not been Kane’s first preference, but he liked it rather 

well. Edward Mayfield, it seemed, had the kind of refined taste that 

had eluded his dreary sister. 

The once-struggling schoolteacher surveyed the bedchamber 

as he loosened his cravat. The fire was lit, the warm, merry 

movement of the flames casting the room in gentle light. The 

furniture was new and of a quality befitting his recent social 

elevation. With a deep sigh of contentment, Kane inspected the 

tall cedar chest of drawers, charmingly lined with wallpaper 

remnants. Every detail of his windfall was exquisite. A servant 

had laid out his nightclothes on the bed and placed a balloon of 

brandy on the side table by his armchair. Smiling, Kane hung 

his jacket on the mahogany dumb valet. If he’d known Millicent 

possessed such a fortune he might have agreed to marry her and 

given that pompous headmaster his notice months ago. 

No matter. It had all worked out rather well anyway. 

It was a month before Reginald Kane came to be less self-satisfied 

with his good fortune, and another before he began to suspect he was 

being poisoned. Initially he’d dismissed the abdominal cramps and 

breathlessness as passing maladies that a man was bound to contract 

from time to time. Perhaps he’d been indulging too heartily in the rich 

food and plentiful whisky to which his new address gave him access? 

So, he asked for simple suppers and drank only with his meals. 

With no improvement, however, he wondered if Edward 

Mayfield’s dour presence was having an effect on his digestion. 

Surely the man’s vindictive demeanour was sufficient to curdle 

the contents of any gut? And so the erstwhile schoolteacher took 

27

to dining alone in his room. Still the pains continued and seemed, 

indeed, to become more severe. 

It was then that Kane became frightened. Was Mayfield 

poisoning him, lacing his meals with some evil toxin? He 

considered now whether he’d been too blithe in taking up 

residence with mad Millicent’s brother. Was the scoundrel plotting 

to avenge his sister with murder? 

Kane fed his next meal to Mayfield’s beagle, but the 

hound showed no ill effects at all. Neither did the cat, nor the 

cook’s young son to whom he gave the pudding. Despite this, 

Kane began to dine at his gentlemen’s club, carefully avoiding 

any consumption that Edward Mayfield may have had the 

opportunity to contaminate. And for a time his constitution 

seemed restored, but the rally was short-lived and his health 

proceeded, once again, to decline. 

Edward Mayfield observed his breakfast companion from behind 

The Argus. Kane was, as always, immaculately groomed, but his eyes 

were sunken and shadowed in a face that was sickly pale. He touched 

neither food nor drink, nervously arranging and rearranging his cutlery 

instead. ‘How did you sleep, Mr Kane?’ Edward asked with practised 

civility. 

Kane regarded him sharply, suspiciously. ‘Is it your intention 

to exhaust my reason, Mayfield? Is that what you are doing, sir?’ 

Edward’s brow rose. ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, 

Mr Kane. I do not recall making any demands on your ability to 

reason. Indeed, I have kept our conversations as simple as I can 

manage in deference to your abilities.’ 

‘You know exactly what I mean!’ Kane spat. ‘What tricks 

have you employed to keep me from sleep? This unrelenting 

illness that will not leave me be ...’ He stopped to cough, wincing 

when the paroxysms finally abated. ‘Let me tell you now, 

Mayfield,’ he spluttered, ‘you will not oust me with schoolboy 

pranks!’ 

Edward went back to his paper. ‘What exactly is your 

complaint, Mr Kane?’ 

‘I am disturbed at night …’ Kane faltered. 

‘Perhaps that’s your conscience.’ 

‘My conscience is untroubled, Mayfield! Your sister’s death 

was nothing to do with me.’ 

‘Is that so?’ Edward slammed down his newspaper. ‘You 

wooed her, lied to her, seduced her with your intellectual 

gibberish and then, when she could see no future but you, you 

ruined and discarded her so callously that she turned a shotgun 

upon herself in a manner that denied her and her family even the 

solace of a Christian burial!’ 

Kane coughed again. Edward waited until he’d stopped. ‘If 

your lodgings are not to your liking, sir, then depart. But allow 

me to remind you that the terms of Millicent’s bequest were 

unambiguous. You’ll inherit nothing unless you sleep a year in the 

room in which she died!’ 

Kane blanched. His debts had accrued at an alarming rate 

over the past months – meals at the club, not to mention dues, 

carriages, acquisitions of fine new clothes to suit his station, 

champagne. Without Millicent’s legacy he would be bankrupted. 

So he said nothing. 

‘If you are ill I will send for a doctor’, Edward Mayfield 

offered darkly. 

‘I, sir, will retain my own’, Kane wheezed. 

‘As you wish, Mr Kane’, Edward replied. ‘Though a priest 

might be of more use.’ 

‘A priest? Do you threaten me, Mayfield?’ 

‘I simply suggest that your haunted conscience may be more 

appropriately treated by a man of the cloth.’ 

Dr Arthur Carrington was a fellow member of Reginald Kane’s club. 

They were friends of a sort. Carrington’s manner befitted the easy 

expansiveness of his stature, and his company was of great comfort to 

his troubled patient. He laughed at the notion that Kane’s illness was 

caused by some spiritual cause. ‘My dear fellow, I do not believe in 

curses. You will find that simple treatable disease is the cause of your 

current troubles.’ 

The physician then set about to address Kane’s symptoms with 

medical science. He diagnosed diphtheria and instructed that the 

windows be closed and the fire stoked. Under his orders a vaporiser 

was installed and the stricken schoolteacher confined to bed. 

Reginald Kane lay back on the soft pillows, relieved, 

comforted by the certainty of modern medicine. The kerosene 

flame of the vaporiser burned, releasing steam continuously from 

its place in the corner, and the air soon became warm and moist. 

The now familiar hacking cough seized him again. Carrington 

had given him a draught to help him sleep. For some reason 

unknown, Kane thought of Millicent as he drifted finally into the 

arms of Morpheus. 

When the door was forced, Edward Mayfield allowed the constables 

to enter first. The room was uncomfortably close, and what air 

remained in it was damp. The walls dripped. It was probably this 

which had swelled the timbers of the doorjamb and sealed the 

bedchamber like a crypt. 

Edward held a handkerchief to his face against the odour – a 

peculiar, mousey smell – as he examined the ruins of the room. It 

appeared Kane had been trying to refill the vaporiser when he’d 

succumbed. The schoolteacher’s gaze was fixed in death upon 

a single panel where condensation had completely peeled the 

fashionable green wallpaper away. Exposed to the moisture, the 

stain of Millicent Mayfield’s blood had brightened and spread. 

And Reginald Kane lay twisted on the floor, his lips as blue as the 

eyes which had once held Millicent in thrall. 

28

29 

The secret in 

the doll’s dress


Kate Douglas 

Case 

The secret in the doll’s dress 

Item 

Doll’s dress, c.1865 

Summary 

During the conservation condition assessment of this Victorian 

doll’s dress in 2006, it was noted that damage had caused two 

small sections of paper containing text (one handwritten, one 

printed) to become visible, indicating the existence of paper 

templates beneath the silk. The location of this text was recorded, 

the area photographed and the paper templates subsequently hidden 

by conservation repairs. In preparation for Fashion Detective analysis 

was carried out by textile conservators at the National Gallery of 

Victoria to determine if it was possible to ‘read’ what was written 

on these hidden paper templates. 

Unknown, England, Doll’s dress, c.1865 (detail of handwritten text taken during conservation assessment 

in 2006) 

Unknown, England, Doll’s dress, c.1865 (detail of printed text taken during conservation assessment in 2006) 

Unknown, England, Doll’s dress, c.1865 


The maker of the doll’s dress used the traditional quilting method 

of English paper piecing when hand-stitching the dress. This method 

involves folding and basting a variety of silk fabrics around tiny 

diamond-shaped paper templates. The silk patches were then sewn 

together using fine whipstitches. Quilts made using this method often 

have the paper templates left in place, leading scholars to believe they 

were an intrinsic part of the quilts’ layering used to provide strength 

and warmth. 1 In support of this, analysis of historic quilts shows that 

when paper piecing wore out, it was sometimes replaced. 2 

Unknown, Australia/England, Patchwork cover, c.1890 (detail of the intact paper template, visible at back 

of quilt) 

The maker of the doll’s dress used the tumbling block quilt pattern, 

which was extremely popular in Britain at this time not only for 

making quilts, but also for producing small decorative items. 3 Another 

example of Victorian quilting in this exhibition is Patchwork Cover, 

c.1890, which was also made using tumbling block and paper piecing. 

Unlike the doll’s dress, which is fully lined, this quilt no longer 

has a lining and almost all of its templates are missing. Some small 

paper fragments, however, remain in seams, as well as one complete 

template with handwritten script. 

30

In the nineteenth century paper was an expensive commodity, and it 

was common practice for even the wealthiest households to re-use it. 

Because of the paper’s previous use, paper templates remaining within 

examples of patchwork can provide information regarding dates and 

sometimes a geographical location for the work. Papers found in other 

English quilts from this period have been recycled from ephemeral 

materials, such as school exercise books, ledgers, advertisements, 

newspapers and receipts. 4 

Process 

With the help of the NGV’s Photographic Services department, it 

was suggested that perhaps the best chance of ‘reading’ the paper was 

to transmit light through the doll’s dress, in the hope that this would 

show any dark areas of ink beneath the silk. The dress was carefully 

suspended so that light could shine through one side at a time. A 

photographic flash was positioned on one side of the dress, and the 

camera on the other to record the light shining through. The flash was 

set so that it was powerful enough to penetrate through the multiple 

layers of fabric, as well as the paper in between. 

This technique was also trialled in infra-red to see if it improved the 

readability of the text. An infra-red sensitive camera was used with an 

infra-red pass filter over the lens to block visible light. This particularly 

enhanced the readability of the typeset words, but not the handwriting. 

The transmitted light was strong enough to show a faint glow 

through the silk patches, and a few dark smudges became visible on 

the monitor. The camera focus was painstakingly adjusted through 

the various layers until the camera was focused on the paper layer. 

A number of eerie-looking printed and handwritten words became 

visible, clearly showing that a large number of the paper templates 

had been recycled from printed material. 

Transmitted light photograph in infra-red revealing the word ‘presence’ printed in letterpress 

Evidence 

Transmitted light photograph in infra-red revealing the word ‘GUILD’ printed in letterpress 

The printed characters are likely to be letterpress, a relief printing 

technique commonly used in the nineteenth century that may leave an 

indentation on paper. They are clearly defined, and perhaps a slight 

impression can be discerned from the initial photograph. The type 

is serif, with pronounced contrast between its thick and thin lines. 

Unfortunately the typeface could not be identified from the images. 

Some of the printed words are clearly discernible, such as the words 

‘GUILD’ and ‘Presence’. Other words are only partially readable. 

However, with uncanny convenience the date ‘1859’ can be clearly 

read on one of the printed paper templates. The typematter does 

Transmitted light photograph in infra-red revealing the date ‘1859’ 

not seem dense enough to be a newspaper column – but this is a 

subjective assumption. The printed characters are more likely to be 

from another ephemeral source, such as an advertising flyer which 

might include a current date. 

31

Transmitted light photograph showing copperplate handwritting 

X-ray showing construction details including basting stitches, folds of silk patches and paper patches 

Many of the handwritten words could only be partially read: the text 

is quite large, is often fragmented and the ink is less dense than that 

of the printed words. The style is clearly copperplate, a neat round 

handwriting meticulously learnt by children in Victorian times, which 

is slanted and looped with thick and thin strokes created by differing 

pressures produced by the flexible metal pointed nib of a dip pen. 

Although it was not expected that x-radiology would differentiate 

between the carbon of the printing ink and the other materials in the 

dress, it was hoped that the differences in paper thickness created from 

the impression of the letterpress would reveal the text. This was not 

the case, but the x-ray does provide valuable information about the 

structure of the dress, including its basting stitches, folds of silk patches 

and the condition of the paper patches beneath. The x-ray indicates 

that the paper shows signs of wear but, after approximately 150 years, 

has not broken down as much as would be expected of groundwood 

newsprint, indicating that the paper was of good quality, which is 

typical of paper from the middle part of the nineteenth century. 

Thank you: John Payne, Senior Conservator, Painting, NGV (x-radiography); 

Narelle Wilson, Photographer, NGV (infra-red photography); David Harris, 

Paper Conservator, State Library of Victoria, Melbourne (advice on paper and typeface). 

NOTES 

1 Joanne Hackett, ‘X-radiography as a tool to examine the making and remaking of historic quilts’, V&A, , 

accessed 1 March 2014. 

2 Sue Pritchford (ed.), Quilts 1700–1945, Queensland Art Gallery, Brisbane, and Victoria and Albert Museum, London, 

2013, p. 134. 

3 Jenny Manning, Australia’s Quilts: A Directory of Patchwork Treasures, AQD Press, Sydney, p. 198. 

4 Pritchford, p. 134. 

Conclusion 

Transmitted light and infra-red analysis revealed that many of the paper 

templates inside the doll’s dress contained printed words produced by 

both letterpress and copperplate techniques. We were fortunate to find 

the printed date of 1859 among a collection of words, which supports 

the catalogue dating of c.1865 and shows that the dress is unlikely to 

have been made before 1859. It is unknown, however, how long the 

dress took to make or how long the paper was stored before cutting 

into templates. This research has added a valuable layer of information 

about hidden components of the doll’s dress. 

32

PAPER 

PIECING 

It is exquisite. Pieced all over in thousands of little diamonds, each one perfectly 

pointed and embroidered with flowers. The dress shimmers with all the colours 

of the rainbow. It glows in the dullness of the cottage. Kitty can barely breathe. 

She lifts it gently from the box. The fabric is butter-soft, and whispers like silk. 

Lili Wilkinson

Lili Wilkinson 

xcuse me? Is anyone home?’ 

The cottage is small and cramped and smells of mildew. 

A few coals glow in the hearth. Kitty removes her bonnet 

and shakes the rain from it. Curls cling to her cheeks like 

clammy weeds. She shivers and moves closer to the fire, where two 

ancient armchairs crouch on the hearth. 

For a moment Kitty thinks she’s alone, but something moves 

in the shadows and she sees the old woman, sitting in one of the 

armchairs. Gnarled and twisted like an old branch, the woman 

might have been sitting there forever. It’s impossible to tell where 

the armchair ends and where the woman begins. Milky eyes 

blink. Paper-dry skin sinks into a toothless mouth. The only signs 

of life are the faltering movements of her twisted fingers, fumbling 

and catching as she pushes an ancient needle through scraps of 

fabric and newspaper, snipped carefully into tiny diamond shapes. 

‘I’m so sorry’, says Kitty, taking a step backwards. ‘I didn’t 

realise anyone was home. I got caught in the rain, you see …’ 

The old woman’s claw-like fingers grope and clutch at the 

needle and thread. Her breathing is ragged, with a deep, chesty 

whistle. Kitty glances around at the dark corners of the cottage 

and sees decades of dust and dry leaves. 

‘I didn’t know someone lived up here’, she says. 

Kitty wonders if Ruth ever came to this place, if she ever met 

this woman. Maybe this woman was the last person to see Ruth 

alive? Looks like it has been a long while since the old woman has 

seen anything, but still … 

‘She was my cousin’, says Kitty, stepping towards the woman 

as she fumbles in her reticule. The newspaper clipping is a little 

damp from the rain. Kitty slides it into the old woman’s hands, 

the black ink headline shrieking familiar words: 


SEARCH FAILS TO RECOVER MISSING GIRL 

The woman’s fingers brush over the newsprint and slowly, 

creakily, she pushes the paper into her basket, where it joins the 

diamond-shaped scraps. 

‘I’m sorry’, says Kitty. ‘I really didn’t mean to disturb you. 

I just … they never found her, you see. And I just can’t help 

wondering.’ 

The rain pounds on the roof of the little cottage. Kitty shivers. 

She doesn’t want to go back out there. She looks around for a 

coal scuttle or a woodpile to build the fire up, but there is nothing. 

She holds out her hands to the few dying embers. Her wet clothes 

are sticking to her skin. She glances at the old woman. 

‘Do you even know I’m here?’ asks Kitty, half to herself. 

The old woman laboriously pulls the needle and thread through 

a tiny scrap of blue cloth. It is sky blue. Ruth used to wear a hat 

with ribbons that colour. Kitty can see them bouncing above yellow 

woven straw and chestnut curls as Ruth races through waist-high 

summer grass, shrieking at some game or other. 


Kitty blows on her hands to warm them. She has to get out 

of her wet clothes. She shrugs off her waterlogged jacket and 

taffeta dress, letting them slop to the floor. She removes two wet 

petticoats and then, with a sideways glance at the old woman, 

unties the ribbons supporting her crinoline, and steps out of it, 

like a bird released from a cage. She unlaces her boots, unhooks 

her ruined silk stockings from their garters and peels them off. 

Underneath, her toes are blue-white from cold. With stiff fingers 

she pulls at the ribbons of her corset, and it joins the rest of her 

garments on the floor in a soggy heap, the white muslin and 

cotton turned grey from mud and water. 

34

It is a perfect fit. It requires no whalebone corset or steel 

skirt hoops. She doesn’t have to mould her body to fit the 

dress – the dress fits her. It clings and shapes in all the right 

places. It whispers to her like the wind blowing through summer 

branches. It smells of waist-high grass and warm breezes. 

Thunder rumbles overhead again. Kitty pulls the unoccupied 

armchair closer to the fire and sinks into it. She isn’t cold 

anymore. The dress, light and airy as it is, is keeping her warm. 

‘I’ll just sit here for a moment’, she says to the old woman, 

curling her bare feet underneath her and resting her head on the 

back of the chair. ‘While my own things dry. Then I’ll take it off 

and go home.’ 

Standing in her chemise and drawers, Kitty feels smaller, 

more vulnerable without her layers of cloth, leather, whalebone 

and steel. She casts around for a shawl or a blanket, and for a 

moment the old woman shifts in her chair, her head tilting so 

slightly that Kitty wonders if she imagined it. She looks in the 

direction that the old woman seems to be indicating, and spies 

an old chest gathering dust in a corner. As her icy fingers fumble 

with the catch she has a sudden burst of sympathy for the old 

woman, grasping at her needle. But her sympathies are soon 

forgotten, because in the chest is a dress. 

It is exquisite. Pieced all over in thousands of little diamonds, 

each one perfectly pointed and embroidered with flowers. The 

dress shimmers with all the colours of the rainbow. It glows in the 

dullness of the cottage. Kitty can barely breathe. She lifts it gently 

from the box. The fabric is butter-soft, and whispers like silk. 

‘Did you make this?’ she asks the old woman. 

Kitty holds the dress up against her body. It clings to her, 

wrapping itself around her curves like a warm, whispering 

embrace. 

For a moment, everything else goes away. The pounding 

rain, the whistling breaths of the old woman. There is just silence 

and stillness. Then a great crash of thunder shakes the walls of 

the cottage. Kitty looks up and sees that it is growing dark. Her 

thumb brushes over the intricately embroidered bodice of the 

dress. She should put it back. She should pull on her own, wet, 

clammy dress and brave the rain. Her parents will be worried. 

And they have good reason to be, after what happened to Ruth so 

many years ago. 

Kitty bends over to put the dress back in the chest, but finds 

that she can’t quite bring herself to let it go. She glances over at 

the old woman, who, for the first time since Kitty’s arrival, stops 

sewing. It’s as if the cottage itself is holding its breath. Kitty finds 

her gaze dragged back to the dress, and her bottom lip catches 

between her teeth. 

When she awakes a few hours later it is truly dark. The fire hasn’t 

died yet and it casts a dim, flickering light around the cottage. Kitty 

feels fuzzy-headed from sleep. Her feet are numb from being curled 

underneath her. The old woman is still sewing. Kitty sees now that 

she is piecing together tiny diamonds, creating a miniature version of 

the dress she is wearing. 

‘Did you ever wear it?’ she asks, smoothing a hand over her 

skirts. ‘It must have been long ago.’ 

The woman reaches for another scrap of cloth, pinching 

it around a diamond-shaped scrap of newsprint. The woman’s 

whistling breath sets the steady rhythm of her sewing. She seems 

to have sped up a little, her movements no longer quite as shaky. 

‘I should get up’, Kitty murmurs drowsily, her eyelids starting 

to sink. ‘I really should go home.’ But she can’t stop her eyes 

from closing. 

When Kitty wakes the second time, she thinks that the storm has 

ended. But then a flash of lightning illuminates the room and she 

can see driving sheets of rain through the thick little window. She 

just can’t hear the rain any more. A sting of panic pricks icy holes in 

Kitty’s belly, and she glances over to the other armchair, where the old 

woman is still sewing. Kitty can’t hear her whistling breath any more, 

but the panic has stilled, replaced with a kind of drowsy fascination. 

Just for a moment … 

Just to see how it feels … 

She pulls the dress over her head, and with fast fingers does 

up the tiny cloth-covered buttons. The woman resumes her sewing. 

Unknown, England, Doll’s dress, c.1865 (detail of printed text from a photograph taken in 2006) 

35

The miniature dress is taking shape – it has a bodice and 

skirt that exactly matches the one Kitty is wearing. And it isn’t 

just limp fabric either. It is beginning to bulge and swell. The old 

woman must also be sewing a doll to wear the dress, building it 

up as she goes. 

Another flash of lightning, and Kitty wonders sleepily why 

she can’t seem to hear anything anymore. 

‘Am I dreaming?’ she murmurs, and her voice sounds like it’s 

coming from a long way away. 

As she speaks, the old woman stops stitching for a moment. 

Kitty blinks. 

‘Did you hear me?’ she says. 

The old woman’s paper-thin lips suck inward over her gums, 

then she blinks her milky eyes and resumes her sewing. 

The fire is blazing when Kitty awakens for the third time. The room 

is illuminated and the old woman is bent over her work, the needle 

flying in and out of the fabric. The doll has arms and legs now, and a 

head with yellow woollen hair. In the light of the fire, Kitty can see the 

diamond-shaped scraps of newsprint more clearly, can even read some 

of the words: 

Maisie Gummer 

missing 

Elizabeth Finch 

Harriet Larkin 

unable to recover 

girl of fourteen 

Bessie Smythe 

searched in vain 

Some of the newspaper diamonds look old. Very old. 

A flash of gold glints on the old woman’s finger as she reaches 

for a scrap of yellow fabric. She is wearing a ring, a simple thing 

set with a single ruby. Kitty has seen it before. 

That ring, she wants to say … That ring belonged to my 

cousin Ruth. 

But when she opens her mouth to say it, nothing comes out 

but croaks and wheezes. Maybe she has caught a chill. The old 

woman – is she so old, after all? – places careful stitches on the 

doll’s face – a pretty, bow-shaped mouth under an elegant nose. 

Who are you, Kitty tries to say. What did you do to Ruth? 

What are you doing to me? 

The woman’s mouth forms the shape of words, but Kitty 

can’t hear. 

For a fourth and final time, Kitty opens her eyes. She blinks heavily, 

trying to shake sleep away. The hut blurs around the edges. Once 

more, Kitty tries to rise from the chair, but she cannot move at all. 

Coloured fabric flashes before her and she sees that the woman has 

somehow exchanged clothes with her during the night. Now it is she 

who is wearing the beautiful coloured dress, and Kitty is just wearing 

rags. 

The woman’s red lips curl in a smile as she makes another 

stitch. 

It’s getting harder for Kitty to open her eyes after each blink. 

Stitch. 

Kitty sees the doll in her coloured dress, red bow mouth 

pursed shut. The woman is placing the last few stitches, the doll’s 

piercing blue eyes and dark lashes. 

Stitch. 

The woman glances at Kitty with eyes that are the same 

precise shade of blue. 

Stitch. 

The woman rises from her chair with a single graceful, fluid 

movement. Kitty’s sight grows dim. The last thing she sees is the 

woman move towards her. Then everything is milky grey and, 

no matter how many times she blinks, Kitty can’t see anything. 

She feels the doll pressed into her hands and, as she grips it, the 

stitches come undone and the doll collapses into tiny scraps of 

fabric and paper. 

Kitty feels the faint brushing of air as the woman passes her. 

Muscles creaking and aching, she manages to move her hand. 

She reaches out, groping until her paper-dry skin brushes the 

cool steel of a needle. She grasps it with twisted fingers, and with 

her other hand reaches for a tiny piece of fabric and a diamondshaped 

scrap of newspaper. 

Stitch. 

36

37 

The case 

of the 

fraudulent 

fur


Kate Douglas 

Case 

The case of the fraudulent fur 

Item 

Muff, c.1920 

Summary 

This 1920s muff from the National Gallery of Victoria’s collection 

had the appearance of being made from a mink, with the paws and 

head intact. Analysis was carried out by NGV textile conservators 

to determine what animal the fur came from, and some surprising 

information was uncovered about the animal’s identity. 


There is a long history of cheaper furs being altered by a variety of 

techniques during processing to replicate more expensive and rare 

furs but this was particularly prevalent in the 1920s. The popularity 

of fur in this period, coupled with the shortage of the rarer and more 

valuable furs, meant that quality furs were in short supply. An effective 

means of relieving this shortage was the dyeing of cheaper skins to 

replicate scarcer furs. Obviously in doing this the financial reward was 

also huge. This activity is described neatly in a quote by William E. 

Austin, consulting chemist to the American fur industry, in 1922: 

There are many animals among the more common and more 

easily obtainable ones, whose skins are admirably suited as 

the basis of imitations of the more costly furs. Some of the 

furs which are adapted for purposes of dyeing imitations are 

… red fox, rabbit, hare, muskrat … and imitations made of 

mink, sable, marten, skunk … And indeed there are very few 

valuable furs which have not been dyed on cheaper pelts. 1 

Process 

To determine the structure of the muff, it was studied by the 

NGV Textile Conservation department using visual observation 

and x-radiography. The micro-morphology of the fur fibres were 

then analysed using an optical microscope and Scanning Electron 

Microscope (SEM). Finally, because of the complexities of identifying 

furs, an expert in fur identification was used to confirm the findings. 

Unknown, Muff, c.1920 

X-ray showing the hand-stitched seams between fur pelts, constructed legs, dome support inside 

the head and the metal wire holding the glass eyes in place. 

38

Evidence 

On examination it can be seen that the fur on the muff is thick, shiny 

and fine, and the pelt is an even black colour from skin to tip, apart 

from the fur on the head and legs which is black with a red undertone. 

This uniformity of colour raises the possibility that the fur has been 

heavily dyed, as animals which have black pelts tend towards a 

brownish shade of black with subtle variations in colour nearer the 

skin. 2 

X-radiography revealed that the ‘mink’ on the muff is actually a 

construction made from several pelts of animal fur, with the main 

body of the muff constructed from three sections, stitched together 

with two invisible joins along the length of the object. The head and 

two paws are attached separately. The x-ray taken of the muff clearly 

showed the seams between all pieces. In addition, it was revealed that 

the head contains a dome, giving it form and structure, and that the 

glass eyes are held together inside the head with a material whose radio 

opacity suggests it is metallic wire. The paws are tubes of seamed pelts, 

unfinished at the ends, and the nose and ears are stitched in place. 

A few individual hairs were removed from the muff and examined 

using an optical microscope, with three distinct types of fur discovered: 

fine, intermediate and coarse. The intermediate fibres have a distinct 

ladder-like appearance in the medulla (the central portion of the fibre). 

This appears as evenly spaced, dark patches arranged as a single 

series. The medulla of the guard fur, by contrast, has a very fine 

granular texture. Although these observations narrowed down the 

possible fur suspects, a number of animals, including cat, mink and 

opossum, possess similar identifiers. 

Fine, immediate and coarse fibres viewed through an optical microscope (whole mount, 400x 

magnification) 

Detail of the constructed head on the muff 

Fine mink fibres viewed through an optical microscope (whole mount, 400x magnification) 

Scale casts were made to further differentiate between these fibres. The 

process revealed a distinctive, overlapping diamond petal scale pattern 

on the mid-length of the intermediate fibre and base of the coarse 

fibre, with waved mosaic patterns at both tips. This information gave 

a match for fox but not for mink, which, though similar at the tip, has 

lanceolate and pectinate (teeth-like) patterns at base. 3 

X-ray showing the internal structure of the constructed head (detail) 

39

Cross-section of fine fur fibre viewed through SEM (high vacuum detector, 2500x magnification). Angular 

contours can be seen on one of the fibres. This image was taken from a gold-coated cross-sectioned block 

(to make it conductive of electricity). 

Scale casts made of the coarse (left) and medium (right) fibres viewed through an optical microscope 

(whole mount, 400x). 

Use of the Scanning Electron Microscope (SEM) located at RMIT 

University, Melbourne, obtained a more detailed view of these 

patterns and confirmed with increased accuracy the patterns seen by 

the scale casts. 

Coarse fur fibre viewed through SEM (low vacuum detector, 2400x magnification). The voltage of the 

electrons (HV), spot size (Spot) and scale bars are labelled in the image. 

Cross-section of coarse fur fibre viewed through SEM (high vacuum detector, 2500x magnification). 

The image shows the oval medulla at the interior of the fibre. 

With analysis complete and a possible identification of the fur as 

being from the Vulpes vulpes (fox) species, we decided to confirm our 

findings with an expert in the field. Some hairs were sent to biologist 

Barbara Triggs, a recognised expert in the identification of mammal 

species. Triggs used microscopic techniques and confirmed with ninety 

per cent certainty that the fur is fox. She also confirmed that the fur 

had been heavily dyed, which interfered with her ability to see the 

medulla, and thus identify the fibres with 100 per cent certainty. 

Conclusion 

This investigation is a reminder that garments made from furs are 

not always what they seem, and that being suspicious is justified when 

studying them. In the case of the muff, it is likely that pelts belonged 

to the common red fox, which were dyed, shaped and joined to have 

the appearance of a far more prestigious animal and fur. Optical 

microscopy and Scanning Electron Microscopy were valuable tools 

in determining the fur’s true identity. 

Fine and intermediate fur fibres viewed through SEM (low vacuum detector, 3000x magnification) 

The SEM also allowed us to take accurate measurements of the 

diameter of the fibres. The fibres were then embedded in resin and 

sputter-coated in gold (to provide a conductive surface), allowing 

cross-sections of the fibres to be studied. These showed the fibres are 

oval with angular contours in the fine fibres and oval medullas – again 

a match for fox 4 (mink has a more flattened oval with no angular 

contours 5 ). Dimensions gained of the fur from the SEM analysis also 

correlated with the dimensional diameter range expected for fox fur. 6 

Thanks to: John Payne, Senior Conservator, Paintings (x-radiography); Barbara Triggs, 

Biologist (fur analysis). The authors acknowledge the facilities, and the scientific and 

technical assistance, of the Australian Microscopy and Microanalysis Research Facility 

at the RMIT Microscopy and Microanalysis facility at RMIT University, Melbourne. 

NOTES 

1 ‘Overview’, Furskin Identification, , accessed 10 Jan. 2014. 

2 William E., Austin, Principles and Practice of Fur Dressing and Fur Dyeing, D. Van Nostrand, New York, 1922, p. 3. 

3 H. M., Appleyard, Guide to Identification of Animal Fibres, 2nd edn, WIRA, London, p. 19. 

4 ibid., p. 10. 

5 ibid., p. 19. 

6 Austin, p. 93. 

40

ESCAPE FROM 

GRANTCHESTER 

MANOR 

It is not enough to get away, she thought, handing 

out the arithmetic tests amid a general gloom. 

One must have a destination. 

Kerry Greenwood

Kerry Greenwood 

lump, dark Isabelle Hinton was an excellent seamstress – 

everyone said so: her mother, now in heaven, her 

employer, Lady Grantchester, the Lady’s mother, Lady 

Hester, and the housekeeper, who handed Isabelle the 

precious linen to invisibly mend. 

Now she was sewing for her freedom and the stitches had 

never been more disgraceful. 

Only that morning, things had been calm. Quiet, orderly, 

pleasant. Isabelle had washed, dressed and taken into the 

kitchen her little brother Henry, aged six, and her little sister 

Jemima, aged eight, for the cook Mrs Ellis to feed and find 

tasks for until morning lessons. At precisely ten o’clock, Isabelle 

had received her charges in the schoolroom, sat the girls down 

to their samplers and the boys to their Latin books, and set 

some arithmetic, despite complaints. She was governess to the 

Grantchester children, Elaine and Alastair. As a friendless poor 

relation, Isabelle had accepted the position because it meant that 

she could have her siblings with her, not farmed out to some 

other poor relative who might not appreciate them. And the 

Grantchester children were not unusually difficult, though they 

were not very bright. Elaine thought of nothing but clothes and 

beaux, and her brother was struggling with Amo, amas, amat long 

after Henry had parsed all the way through to amaverunt. 

Unknown, Hat, 19th century 

Then my Lady Hester had demanded her presence, and 

Isabelle had accompanied her to the luxurious room where the 

dowager spent her mornings. 

‘You are a good girl, Isabelle’, she said flatly. ‘You are 

eighteen now?’ 

‘I am, my lady’, said Isabelle, curtseying. 

‘Have you considered marriage?’ demanded the old woman. 

‘No, no, I can’t expect to marry, your Ladyship, I have 

the children to care for ...’ faltered Isabelle, for she had an 

understanding with a stalwart Cambridge baker named Thomas 

Curtis. But the Dowager Lady Hester didn’t need to know that. 

‘I have decided something which will make you joyful’, said 

the old lady, eyeing Isabelle like a vulture eyes a lamb. ‘You shall 

marry my son.’ 

‘My lady?’ gasped Isabelle. Alastair was too young, the lady 

must mean Daubney, disgrace to the household, a libertine and 

rake riddled with disease. 

‘He came racketing home last night, vowing repentance as 

always’, continued the old woman. ‘He needs a wife, to settle him 

down and provide him with an heir. We have been kind to you, 

you are fresh and pure ... are you not?’ snarled the dowager, and 

Isabelle blushed pink. 

‘I am’, she responded. The dowager smiled unpleasantly at 

her flushed cheeks. 

‘Then it is settled. The children shall be sent to the country, 

you need not be bothered by them. You need only to endure him 

until you are carrying his child. Once we have two, then he can 

be safely confined in an asylum. You will be a merry widow, and 

your sons will inherit all this. Agreed? Good’, and she waved 

Isabelle out. 

The door had barely closed when Isabelle began to 

plot. She needed a disguise, for she knew that she would be 

prevented from walking down to the village. From now until she 

married Daubney, Isabelle Hinton would be a close prisoner of 

Grantchester Manor. 

It is not enough to get away, she thought, handing out 

the arithmetic tests amid a general gloom. One must have a 

destination. And Isabelle had one. She wrote a note to her 

Thomas and, when the children’s luncheon was served, slipped 

down to the stable yard and gave her last shilling to her father’s 

cousin, Ralph, to convey to him. Ralph would not betray her. He 

was in love with Tom Curtis’s housemaid. 

Unknown, Child’s mourning dress, c.1882 

42

I probably have a few days, thought Isabelle, since the sot 

Daubney would be in full horrors by now, and no one could expect 

him to make coherent vows while delirious. Isabelle shelled peas for 

the cook while she sorted, sifted and discarded plot after plot. 

Until she knew – and then she paled so remarkably that 

the cook gave her brandy and bade her sit with her head down, 

sniffing smelling salts. Isabelle obeyed. What she had in mind 

would require courage and daring. And she had that. Before she 

died, her mother had been a renowned hunter, never refusing 

a fence. Isabelle would not refuse this one. And she would 

rather die than marry Daubney. He would infect her instantly. 

She shuddered. 

When she was missed, people would look for a woman with a small 

girl and boy. Therefore, a day later, Isabelle sat in her room, making 

mourning clothes for two small girls out of her old box-pleated tunic, 

the pleats harvested, and some scraps of black silk which had been 

in the sewing room. Looping stitches ‘sewn with a red hot needle 

and a burning thread’, stitches that her Grandmother would have 

made her pull out and sew again. She had a discarded dress and 

bonnet, a bundle of needments slung from her shoulder, and her 

siblings by the hand. 

‘We must be very quiet, quiet as mice’, Isabelle instructed. 

Then she descended the servant’s stairway into the cellar, trying 

not to breathe too loudly, twisted the handle on a certain wine 

barrel, and watched the door swing open. 

‘It’s dark!’ whimpered Henry. 

‘It’ll be light inside’, Isabelle assured him, lighting her candle 

lantern. ‘It’s an adventure!’ 

Henry stepped inside, grip firm on his toy piggy. Jemima had 

Lambie. Isabelle shut the door behind them, and it clicked. Two 

miles to Cambridge, and the tunnel as black as the inside of a fish. 

Two thousand paces with the left foot. 

It was a well-made tunnel, arched brick vaulting, Cambridge’s 

secret escape from plague or invasion. And it was dry underfoot. 

Untouched for a long time. Spider webs stretched across it. 

Isabelle made the children duck underneath them. For a while 

they got on well. Then first Henry, then Jemima began to tire. 

They hauled on her skirts and started to whine. 

‘Just a little longer’, urged Isabelle. ‘It’s not far now.’ 

‘Are we going to die?’ asked Henry, interested. ‘Will there 

be angels?’ 

‘No, we are going to live, and we are going to live all 

together’, Isabelle told him. ‘If you keep walking I’ll tell 

you a story.’ 

The children loved Isabelle’s stories. ‘Once upon a time,’ she 

started, desperately trying to think of a tale, ‘there was a prophet 

of the Lord whose name was Jonah’. 

‘Heard it’, sniffed Henry, dragging at her hand. ‘I’m tired, 

I want to sit down. I want to go home!’ 

‘Don’t be such a baby’, chided Jemima. ‘Tell us another story, 

Isabelle!’ 

‘Once upon a time there were three little mice’, she started. 

Surely they had walked more than two thousand paces? The 

children took such small strides. There was a light ahead, which 

gave her courage. ‘And a nasty cat sat waiting at their mouse hole, 

so that they couldn’t get out.’ 

‘Like us,’ commented Jemima. ‘Lady Grantchester was going to 

send us away. She told us. Somewhere nice, she said. I didn’t believe 

her’, said Jemima with the artless honesty of an eight-year-old. 

‘Neither did I’, Isabelle agreed. ‘So the clever mice found that 

there was a mouse-run which would take them right out of the 

way of the angry cat.’ 

‘Did it work?’ asked Henry. 

The end of the tunnel, a door, and Isabelle knew the catch. 

The door swung open. She was embraced, in her mourning 

clothes, by her own big, blond Thomas Curtis, who gathered her 

into his floury arms. Isabelle almost wept with relief, but there 

was still a task to do before they were safe. They hurried through 

the chapel into the street as the music from a rehearsal rose and 

swelled like a blessing. 

‘Angels’, said Henry. ‘I told you so.’x 

No one noticed an attentive baker escorting a widow in 

weeds, heavy veil over her face, and her two sad orphans along 

King Street to the parish church, where the priest waited. Isabelle 

untied her bonnet and flung back the veil. 

‘I come to you with nothing’, she said. ‘Will you have me as 

I am, and the children?’ 

‘As though they were my own’, said Thomas, and kissed her, 

beaming all over his big, ugly, good-natured face. ‘We shall live 

together all the days of our lives, and I shall bake and you shall 

sew, and nothing will come between us. And you are my son now, 

Henry, and you, Jemima, are my daughter.’ 

‘I like you’, said Henry. ‘This is Piggy. He likes you, too.’ 

Thomas greeted Piggy courteously. 

Jemima said nothing, but leant confidently against Thomas 

Curtis as though he was a wall. 

Lady Grantchester arrived just too late to forbid the marriage 

of Isabelle Hinton, spinster, and Thomas Curtis, baker. 

Her face, as she offered congratulations to the radiant bride, 

would have curdled new milk. 

‘Nasty cat’, said Henry, and kicked her in the shin. 

Even the priest laughed. 

43

Miss Geddes (attributed to) (decorator), 

Sheet music, fancy dress, 1907 

This charming fancy-dress costume was acquired 

from a private collector in 1974 as part of a group of 

nineteenth-century garments and accessories. The 

following information was recorded at the time: 

‘This dress was worn to a fancy-dress ball 

at Mena House, Cairo, in 1907 by a Miss 

Geddes. The dress is accompanied by three 

photographs of the owner wearing it and a 

cutting from the Egyptian Gazette of 

20 February 1907 describing the ball’. 

While the newspaper cutting is now lost, the 

photograph bears this handwritten annotation: 

‘1907, under the orange blossom, Bloemfontein 

(South Africa)’. 

44

List of works 

Note to reader 

The list of works conforms to international 

and National Gallery of Victoria 

cataloguing standards and formats. 

Works are arranged within sections; 

in alphabetical order by artist and 

chronologically within each artist’s listing. 

Measurements for photographs are 

represented by image size. 

Firm dates for works have been established 

from the artist’s inscriptions. 

Dates supported by documentary evidence 

are in parentheses. 

The use of c. for circa implies a two-year 

window either side of the central date 

Numbers in brackets at the conclusion of 

the caption are accession numbers of the 

National Gallery of Victoria. 

All works are in the National Gallery of 

Victoria collection unless otherwise stated. 

David Belzycki 

Manager, Cataloguing 

FASHION & TEXTILES 

A. J. White, London (hatter) 

England active (1900s–1960s) 

Top hat (1901–04) 

rabbit fur, wood (felt), silk 

83.0 cm (outer circumference) 

14.0 cm (height) 23.0 cm (width) 

Gift of Mr William Weatherly Mortlake, 

1976 (D30-1976) 

Opera hat (1901–04) 

silk 


2.5 cm (height collapsed) 24.6 cm (width) 


1976 (D31-1976) 

Bowler hat (1900s) 

wool (felt), silk ribbon 




1976 (D32-1976) 

Anthony Horden and Sons, Sydney 

(retailer) 

est. 1869 

Top hat (c.1885) 

silk, leather, cotton, wool 

90.0 cm (outer circumference), 


The Schofield Collection. 

Purchased with the assistance of a special 

grant from the Government of Victoria, 

1974 (D288-1974) 

Bool Chand’s, Calcutta (manufacturer) 

India active (1900s) 

Pith helmet (1901–04) 

cotton, straw, pith 




1976 (D33-1976) 

François Pinet, Paris (shoemaker) 

France est. 1850 

Jean-Louis François Pinet (designer) 

France 1817–97 

S.D. & L.A. Tallerman, London 

and Melbourne (retailer) 

(1870s)–1881 

Boots 1867 

satin, leather, metal 

(a-b) 12.5 x 7.0 x 24.0 cm (each) 

88220 

Harrods, London (manufacturer 

and retailer) 

English est. 1834 

Travelling hatcase (1901–04) 

28.0 x 46.0 x 36.0 cm (hat case) 


1976 (D29-1976) 

Joseph Dawson & Sons, London 

and Northampton (shoemaker) 

England active 19th century 

Shoes (c.1836) 

leather, silk, mother of pearl 

(a-b) 4.5 x 5.0 x 14.7 cm (each) 

Presented by Mrs R. J. McFarland, 1987 

(CT15.a-b-1987) 

Mary Richardson 

active 1780s 

Sampler 1783 

linen, silk thread 

56.0 x 56.3 cm 

Gift of Mrs A. B. Kelly, 1972 (D21-1972) 

Miss Geddes (attributed to) (decorator) 

active in Egypt (1900s) 

Sheet music, fancy dress 1906 

cotton, metal, ink 

(a) 42.5 cm (centre back) (bodice), 

38.0 cm (width) 29.5 cm (sleeve) 

(b) 106.0 cm (centre back), 26.0 cm 

(waist, flat) (skirt) 

(c) 25.5 x 176.8 x 1.0 cm (sash); 

(d) 13.0 cm (height), 49.0 cm 

(circumference) (headpiece); 

(e) 24.0 x 48.0 cm (fan) 

Purchased through The Art Foundation 

of Victoria with the assistance of David 

Syme & Co. Limited, Fellow, 1977 

(D80.a-e-1977) 

Mme Delbarre, London (dressmaker) 

England active 1880s 

Mourning gown (1885–90) 

silk (moiré, velvet, satin, lace), cotton 

(a) 39.4 cm (sleeve length), 

31.0 cm (waist, flat) (bodice) 

(b) 190.5 cm (centre back), 

35.0 cm (waist, flat) ) (skirt) 

Gift of Mrs J. E. Wheda, 1976 

(D74.a-b-1976) 

Moubray, Rowan & Hicks, Melbourne 

(retailer) 

1878–92 

Unknown 

(manufacturer) 

Shoes (1880–93) 

leather, metal, glass, silk 

(a-b) 10.5 x 6.7 x 22.9 cm (each) (shoes) 

Gift of Mr J. G. H. Sprigg, 1971 

(D113.a-b-1971) 

Unknown 

Boots (c.1870) 

leather, metal, silk, cotton 

(a-b) 14.0 x 5.5 x 14.5 cm (each) 


Gift of Anne Schofield, 1977 

(D60.a-b-1977) 

Unknown 

Child’s mourning dress (c.1882) 

wool, silk 

67.0 cm (centre back), 32.5 cm (waist, flat) 




1974 (D171-1974) 

Unknown 

Child’s mourning dress (c.1882) 

wool, silk 





1974 (D172-1974) 

Unknown 

Pin cushion (c.1885) 

silk (velvet, satin), glass (beads), metal 

(beads), linen 

7.5 x 19.5 x 19.5 cm 

Presented by Mr. Maurice Clarke, 1981 

(CT18-1981) 

Unknown 

Handkerchief sachet (c.1887) 

silk, wool, crystal, cotton 

17.5 x 17.5 x 1.5 cm 

Gift of Mrs Michael Parker, 1983 

(CT24-1983) 

Unknown 

Bookmarks (c.1890) 

silk, paper 

(1) 5.0 x 31.5 x 0.1 cm 

(2) 3.5 x 34.0 x 0.1 cm 

(3) 7.0 x 46.7 x 0.1 cm 

Gift of Miss H. Clark, 1976 

(D138A-1976 – D138C-1976) 

Unkonwn 

Mantlepiece valance and curtains (c.1890) 

silk, wool 

(a-c) 123.0 x 210.0 cm (framed) (overall) 

Purchased, 1988 (CT64.a-c-1988) 

Unknown 

Doll (19th century) 

porcelain, cotton, (sawdust) 

38.0 x 15.0 x 7.0 cm 

Gift of Miss A. Bellaire, 1961 (285-D5) 

Unknown 

Ice skating boots (c.1900) 

leather, metal, synthetic fibre, textile 

(laces, padding) 

(a-b) 32.0 x 29.0 x 7.0 cm (each) 

Unaccessioned item 

Unknown 

Muff (c.1907) 

feathers, silk 

59.0 x 39.0 x 7.0 cm 

Gift of Mrs R. Hamley, 1969 (D125-1969) 

Unknown 

Muff (c.1920) 

fox fur, silk 

6.5 x 30.0 x 23.0 cm 

Gift of Miss Irene Mitchell, 1981 (D7- 

1981) 

Unknown 

Wedding outfit (1939–47) 

silk 

(a) 200.0 cm (centre back), 

62.0 cm (waist, flat) (dress) 

(b) 45.0cm (outer circumference) 

11.0cm (height) 9.0 cm (width) (headdress) 




1974 (D517.a-b-1974) 

Unknown, Australia 

Dress (c.1850) 

cotton 

140.0 cm (centre back), 31.0 cm (waist, 

flat) 

Purchased through The Art Foundation 

of Victoria with the assistance of David 

Syme & Co. Limited, Fellow, 1977 

(D71-1977) 


Waistcoat (c.1855) 

silk, cotton 


Gift of Mrs Gwenda L. Davis and 

Mrs Ena Elder, 1977 (D291-1977) 



silk, cotton, glass 

(a) 175.0 cm (centre back) 

38.0 cm (waist, flat) 

(b) 66.5 x 84.5 cm irreg. (sash) 




1974 (D145.a-b-1974) 

45


Outfit: Girl’s dress, petticoat and shoes (c.1865) 

cotton gauze, cotton lace, satin, metal 

hooks, leather, silk (satin), cotton 




25.0 cm (waist, flat) (petticoat) 

(e-f) 4.5 x 5.0 x 17.2 cm (each) (shoes) 

Gift of Miss Bell, 1973 (D245.a-b-1973, 

D245.e-f-1973) 



silk, cotton, metal 

173.0 cm (centre back) 37.0 cm (waist, flat) 

Gift of Miss I. B. Strachan, 1971 

(D10A-1971) 


Wedding dress (c.1885) 

silk (satin), cotton, metal 




39.0 cm (waist, flat) (skirt) 

(c) 92.0 cm (centre back), 

137.0 cm (width) (train) 

Gift of Joycelyn Nixon and her family 

in memory of their mother Onnie Jean 

Nixon, 2010 (2010.29.a-c) 


Waistcoat (1890) 

linen, silk, cotton, shell, metal 


Gift of Terence Lane, 1978 (D15-1978) 


Cape (c.1890) 

platypus fur, silk, cotton 

39.0 cm (centre back), 158.0 cm 

(hem circumference) 

Gift of Mrs F. Smith, 1985 (CT105-1985) 


Riding outfit (c.1890) 

wool, cotton, silk 




25.5 cm (waist, flat) (skirt) 

Gift of Mr J. G. H. Sprigg, 1971 

(D102.a-b-1971) 


Boots (1918–22) 

leather, linen, metal 

(a-b) 20.5 x 8.5 x 26.5 cm (each) 

Gift of Mrs M. Mirenda, 1981 

(CT29.a-b-1981) 


Australian active (early 20th century) 

Dress and jacket (c.1910) 

cotton, metal 


57.5 cm (sleeve length) (jacket) 



Gift of Lara Nicholls in memory of 

Dorothy Isabel MacIntosh, 2011 

(2011.344.a-b) 

Unknown, Australia / England 

Corset (1890–95) 

silk (satin), cotton (lawn, lace), steel 

(eyelets, stays), baleen 


Gift of Mr J.G.H. Sprigg, 1971 

(D107-1971) 

Unknown, Australia / England 

Patchwork cover (c.1890) 

silk, cotton, paper, ink 

157.0 x 131.5 cm 

Gift of Lady Cohen, 1970 (D44-1970) 

Unknown, (Australia) 

Bookmarks (c.1890) 

paper, silk, cotton (thread) 

(1) 5.5 x 26.0 x 0.1 cm 

(2) 5.0 x 24.0 x 0.1 cm 

Gift of Mr Rex D. Jones & Mrs 

I.D. Gowan, 1977 (D282A-1977), 

(D282B-1977) 

Unknown, (China) 

Louis Vuitton, Paris (after) 

Handbag (c. 2014) 

synthetic fabric, metal 

37.5 x 32.0 x 18.0 cm 

Private collection, Melbourne 

Unknown, England 


silk, cotton (lace) 

(a) 139.0 cm (centre back) 


(b) 81.0 x 67.0 cm (overskirt) 




1974 (D146-1974) 


Shoes 1900 

cotton, kid 

(a-b) 5.0 x 11.0 x 4.8 cm (each) 

Gift of Mrs William Rees, 1977 

(D46.a-b-1977) 


Waistcoat (late 18th century– 

early 19th century) 

wool, cotton, glass (jet) 


Gift of Lady Nicholson and her daughter, 

1951 (1057C-D4) 


Shoes (1825–30) 

silk, leather, elastic 

(a-b) 4.0 x 6.0 cm x 24.5 cm (each) 




1974 (D353.a-b-1974) 


Carriage dress (c.1830) 

silk (Gros de Naples), cotton (lace), 

metal (buckle, hooks and eyes) 

153.0 cm (centre back), 





1974 (D124-1974) 


Parasol (1840–50) 

silk, metal 

73.6 x 50.8 cm diameter 

Gift of Mrs Hugh Morgan, 1976 

(D9-1976) 


Bracelet (c.1845) 

hair (horse) 

17.0 x 5.8 x 0.9 cm 




1974 (D425-1974) 


Child’s dress (c.1845) 

silk (velvet) 





1974 (D131-1974) 



silk (taffeta), cotton (lace) 



Gift of Misses M. K. and A. E. Butler, 

1948 (753-D4) 


Waistcoat (c.1845) 

silk, cotton, metal (buttons) 


Gift of P. Peach, 1932 (3296A-D3) 



silk (brocade), leather, silk 

(a-b) 15.0 x 7.5 x 25.2 cm (boots) 

Presented by Lady Nicholson and her 

daughter, 1951 (1072.a-b-D4) 


Smoking cap (1850–90) 

silk, wool 

9.0 cm (height); 63.0 cm (circumference) 




1974 (D433-1974) 


Doll’s dress (c.1865) 

silk, linen, paper, metal 


Gift of Lady Nicholson and her daughter, 

1951 (1054-D4) 


Mourning locket (c.1870) 

(plastic), metal, glass, paper 

(photograph), hair 

5.0 x 4.0 x 2.9 cm 

Gift of Mrs Vera Donaldson, 1978 

(D72-1978) 


Fan (1870–80) 

ostrich feathers, tortoiseshell, gold, 

brass, metal 

46.8 x 74.4 x 3.9 cm (variable) 




1974 (D392-1974) 


Shoes 1872 

leather, metal (buckle) 

(a-b) 5.8 x 5.3 x 16.5 cm (each) 

Gift of Miss Mary Bostock, 1965 

(1336.a-b-D5) 


Shoes (1874) 

silk, wool, linen, leather 

(a-b) 4.0 x 3.6 x 10.0 cm (each) 

Gift of Miss M. Jordan, 1952 (1116.a-b-D4) 


Bustle (c.1875–88) 

cotton, steel 

86.0 cm (centre back), 40.0 cm (width) 




1974 (D448-1974) 


Work basket (1880–90) 

cane, metal, silk 

9.0 x 22.0 x 16.0 cm 

Gift of Miss H. Clark, 1976 (D132-1976) 


Chatelaine spectacle case (c.1895) 

leather, metal 

(a) 12.7 x 5.0 x 21.0 cm (closed) (case) 

(b) 0.6 x 11.0 x 3.0 cm (spectacles) 

(a-b) 12.7 x 5.0 x 21.0 cm (overall) 

Gift of Mr Paul Craft, 1974 (D54.a-b-1974) 


Bonnet (19th century) 

silk, cotton, straw 

24.0 x 21.5 x 20.5 cm 


1948 (718-D4) 


Hat (19th century) 

straw, metal, silk, linen 

13.0 cm (height), 109.0 cm 

(outer circumference) 

63357 


Riding crop (19th century) 

leather 

52.0 x 2.8 x 2.5 cm 


Purchased with the assistance of a 

special grant from the Government 

of Victoria, 1974 (D497-1974) 


Girl’s dress (c.1900) 

wool, cotton, silk 





1974 (D186-1974) 


Brush (1901–04) 

bristles, wood 

2.0 x 52.0 x 3.5 cm 


1976 (D37-1976) 


Hat iron (1901–04) 

iron, wood 

3.0 x 3.0 x 33.5 cm 


1976 (D35-1976) 


Spats (1901–04) 

cotton, linen (lining), plastic (buttons), 

metal (buckle) 

(a-b) 18.5 x 19.0 x 3.0 cm (each) 


1976 (D34.a-b-1976) 

46


Sailor suit (c.1903) 

cotton, plastic (buttons) 


16.0 cm (sleeve length) (top) 

(b) 33.0 cm (outer leg), 

43.0 cm (waist, flat) (trousers) 




1974 (D200.a-b-1974) 


Hunt dress coat (1920s) 

wool, silk, brass 


62.5 cm (sleeve length) 

Purchased NGV Foundation, 2008 

(2008.332) 

Unknown, Europe 

Slippers (c.1840) 

wool, leather 

(a-b) 23.0 x 6.0 x 5.5 cm (each) 


1948 (763.a-b-D4) 



silk (brocade), leather, silk 

(a-b) 15.0 x 7.5 x 25.2 cm (boots) 

Presented by Lady Nicholson and her 

daughter, 1951 (1072.a-b-D4) 


Shoes (1860–70) 

silk, leather 

(a-b) 4.0 x 4.0 x 12.3 cm (each) 

Gift of Mrs William Rees, 1977 

(D45.a-b-1977) 

Unknown, (France) 

Bodice (c.1885) 

silk, metal 

61.0 cm (centre back) 

57.0 cm (sleeve length) 

Gift of Miss M. Bostock, 1963 (521-D5) 

Woodrow, London (hatter and retailer) 

England active (1900s–1960s) 

Polisher (1901–04) 

silk (velvet) 

16.2 x 8.0 x 4.0 cm 


1976 (D36-1976) 

W.S. & E.H. Thomson, London 

(manufacturer) 

England active mid 19th century 

Empress crinoline frame (c.1860) 

cotton, wire 

85.0 cm (centre back) 59.0 cm (diameter) 

Purchased, 1982 (CT95-1982) 

PAINTINGS AND WORKS 

ON PAPER 

Alastair Cary-Elwes 

born England 1866, lived in France 

1884–95, Scotland 1896–1946, 

died Scotland 1946 

Rupert Bunny (c.1887) 

oil on canvas 

65.1 x 81.3 cm 

Gift of Mr C. C. Chisholm Esq., 1962 

(1074-5) 

E. Phillips Fox 

Australia 1865–1915, lived in France 

1901–13 

Dolly, Daughter of Hammond Clegg Esq. 1896 

oil on canavs 

95.9 x 73.4 cm 

Gift of Brian Shaw QC, 2013 

Arthur Hughes 

England 1832–1915 

Fair Rosamond (1854) 

oil on cardboard 

40.3 x 30.5 cm 

Gift of Miss Eva Gilchrist in memory of 

her uncle P. A. Daniel, 1956 (3334-4) 

Owen Jones 

England 1809–74 

Design for Peri 1870-1874 

watercolour with pen and ink 

71.7 x 45.7 cm 

Purchased, 1976 (P84-1976) 

Edwin Landseer 


The Earl and Countess of Sefton and daughter, 

with horses and dogs (1846) 

oil on canvas 

182.4 x 286.2 cm 

Felton Bequest, 1948 (1825-4) 

Arthur Loureiro 

Portugal 1853–1932, lived in Australia 

1884–1904 

The seamstress’s reverie 1887 

oil on wood panel 

16.6 x 22.3 cm irreg. 

Presented through The Art Foundation of 

Victoria by Sir Thomas and Lady Travers, 

Governors, 1985 (A11-1985) 

Morris & Co., London (distributor) 

England 1861–1940 

William Morris (designer) 


Jeffrey & Co., London (printer) 

England (c.1836) –1930 

Daisy, wallpaper 1864 

colour woodcut 

115.0 x 54.0 cm (image and sheet) 

Gift of Michael Whiteway, 1997 

(1997.134) 

Morris & Co., London (distributor) 

England 1861–1940 

William Morris (designer) 


Phillip Webb (designer) 

England 1831–1915 

Jeffrey & Co., London (printer) 

England (c.1836) –1930 

Trellis, wallpaper 1864 (designed) 

colour woodcut 

79.4 x 56.8 cm (image and sheet) 

Gift of Michael Whiteway, 2009 

(2009.384) 

Hugh Ramsay 

born Scotland 1877, arrived Australia 

1878, died 1906 

Anxiety (c.1899) 

oil on canvas 

60.5 x 76.3 cm 

Gift of Mrs James Ramsay, 1943 (1200-4) 

Tom Roberts (attributed to) 

born England 1856, arrived Australia 

1869, lived in Europe 1881–85, 1903–19, 

died 1931 

Portrait of a young girl (1890) 

oil on canvas 

47.2 x 39.1 cm 

Gift of Mrs J. Richter, 1972 (A19-1972) 

Edward Sands 

active in Australia (1880s) 

No title (Young man with moustache), 

carte-de-visite (1880s) 

albumen silver photograph 

7.2 x 5.0 cm (image) (oval) 

Gift of C. Stuart Tompkins,1972 

(PH150-1972) 

Stewart & Co., Melbourne 

Australia 1879–96 

No title (Young bearded man), carte-de-visite 

(1880s) 


6.9 x 5.1 cm 

Gift of Mrs N. McLauchlan, 1975 

(PH52-1975) 

Verey & Co., Victoria 

1899–1900 

No title (Bearded gentleman), carte-de-visite 

(1890s) 


7.6 x 4.8 cm irreg. (image) 

Gift of C. Stuart Tompkins, 1972 

(PH169-1972) 

Yeoman & Co., Melbourne 

Australia 1882–1900 

No title (Young man, head and shoulders), 

carte-de-visite (1888–89) 


7.6 x 5.2 cm (oval) (image) 

Gift of C. Stuart Tompkins, 1972 

(PH170-1972) 

47

First published in 2014 by 

The Council of Trustees of 

the National Gallery of Victoria 

180 St Kilda Road 

Melbourne, Victoria 3004, Australia 

www.ngv.vic.gov.au 

This publication is copyright and all rights are reserved. Apart from 

any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be 

reproduced or communicated to the public by any process without 

prior written permission. Enquiries should be directed to the publisher. 

© National Gallery of Victoria 2014 

Published for the exhibition Fashion Detective, The Ian Potter Centre: 

NGV Australia at Federation Square, 9 May – 31 August 2014. 

National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry: 

Author: Whitfield, Danielle, author. 

Title: Fashion detective / Danielle Whitfield ; Garry Disher ; 

Lili Wilkinson ; Sulari Gentill ; Kerry 

Greenwood ; Annette Soumilas ; Bronwyn 

Cosgrove ; Kate Douglas. 

ISBN: 

Subjects: 

9780724103911 (ebook) 

Fashion--Fiction. 

Detective and mystery stories. 

Other Authors/Contributors: 

Disher, Garry, 1949- author. 

Wilkinson, Lili, 1981- author. 

Gentill, Sulari, author. 

Greenwood, Kerry, author. 

Soumilas, Annette, author. 

Cosgrove, Bronwyn, author. 

Douglas, Kate, author. 

National Gallery of Victoria, issuing body. 

Dewey Number: A823.4 

Publications Manager: Jasmin Chua 

Publications Assistant: Nadiah Abdulrahim 

Text editor: Mark Gomes 

Designer: Jackie Robinson 

Ebook production: Connor Byrt 

Multimedia: Diana Ward 

Photographer: Narelle Wilson 

Pre-press: Anne-Marie De Boni 

Acknowledgements 

Special acknowledgement for the contributions made to 

this exhibition: 

Cataloguing: Julia Jackson 

Conservation: Bronwyn Cosgrove, Kate Douglas, Annette Soumilas 

Exhibition Design: John Eccles, Katherine Horseman 

Exhibition Management: Edwina Brennan 

Kids’ space: Kate Ryan 

Multimedia: Matt Lim, Ben Walbrook, Diana Ward 

Public Programs: Emily Siddons 

Registration: Holli Chandler 

Intern: Marion Parker 

With special thanks to John Payne and Katie Somerville. 

Comparative illustrations 

p. 5 

John Leech 

The Arsenic Waltz. The new Dance of Death. 

(Dedicated to the green wreath and dress-mongers.) 1862 

p. 14 

Luis Jimenez y Aranda 

1845–1928 

Le Carreau du Temple, Paris 1890 

oil on canvas 

Private collection 

p. 15 

Worth & Bobergh, Paris 

Bodice 1860s 

Collection of Martin Kramer 

Image and copyright credits 

© Arthur Ackermann Ltd., London / The Bridgeman Art Library 

p. 14; courtesy Martin Kramer p. 15; © Punch Limited p. 5 

cover: 

Moubray, Rowan & Hicks, Melbourne (retailer) 

Unknown (manufacturer) 

Shoes 1880–93 

All reasonable efforts have been made to obtain permission to use copyright 

material reproduced in this publication. In cases where this has not been 

possible, owners are invited to notify the Publications Department at the 

National Gallery of Victoria. 

The views expressed in this publication are those of the authors and do not 

necessarily reflect those of the NGV or the publisher. 

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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