TITLE: The Case Of The Living Painting
AUTHOR: Talepiece
RATING: 12 cert.
PAIRING: Vastra/Jenny
SERIES: The Casebook Of Madame Vastra
CONTINUITY: This is the third story in the third volume of Vastra/Jenny stories. It references last year's Halloween story, The Case Of The Severed Hand.
DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, please don't sue me.
CREDITS: This story is loosely based on Manly Wade Wellman's The Golgotha Dancers.
NOTE: The following takes terrible liberties with Doctor Who continuity and mild liberties with Christian doctrine. Or vice versa. If you're uncomfortable with either, read carefully.
Apologies for the delay in posting. The final part of this volume should be posted earlier next month.
I'm planning to start a (probably infrequent) blog over at the TP site to post additional notes, etc so keep an eye out for that.
POSTED: October 2014

Though there were many dark days in their investigations, the darkest of those was undoubtedly triggered by the case of a strange painting. In attempting to save one of the people most dear to Jenny Flint, the two women would uncover a terrible secret and Vastra herself would come close to loosing that which was most important to her.

Jennifer Strax Vastra-Flint.
London, 1948.

Madame Vastra held her colleague and lover Jenny Flint in a loose embrace. Jenny was want to move in her sleep, sometimes quite violently when dreams troubled her. They troubled Vastra too, in part due to the origins of such discomfort and in part due to the discomfort they caused her as arms and legs suddenly flailed. It could be most disquieting. And painful.

After some trial and error, Vastra had found that a loose embrace best served her dual purpose of holding her sleeping partner and surviving the night unharmed. This night Jenny appeared to be undisturbed by whatever dark emotions her unconscious might harbour. She looked the young woman that she truly was; her face unlined by concerns, her body relaxed and quite as beautiful as any Vastra had ever seen.

Vastra allowed her eyes to close, thinking that perhaps she could afford an additional few minutes in bed this morning. There were no appointments for her to attend, no clients due to call and her work in the lab two floors below was not urgent enough to draw her from the cocoon of Jenny's comfortable room.

And then, to the eternal frustration of Madame Vastra of Paternoster Row, the doorbell rang. Vastra forced back the scream of annoyance, certain that it would wake Jenny. The doorbell rang again and a third time, each ring seemingly more insistent than the last.

Vastra whispered a few calming words to her waking lover and was gratified that Jenny's body relaxed once more into sleep. She eased her arms free and herself out of bed before staring accusingly at the clock. It was before three in the morning and an entirely inappropriate hour to be waking a civilised household.

Vastra donned a long, silk nightrobe that had been an unexpected gift from her companion. It felt pleasantly cool against her scales after the furnace heat of Jenny's human skin and she enjoyed the sensation for a moment before the doorbell rang again and all pleasure left her. She closed the bedroom door with a gentle click and hastened down the staircase to the hallway.

A sigh of regret was the only indication that the vortex manipulator remained in the lab and therefore unavailable for use. Instead, Vastra took up her hat and veil, quickly donning both before the heathen at the door could ring yet again.

Vastra opened the door, aware that she must offer a quite startling - and probably unfortunate - sight but not caring a jot. She yanked at the door with such force that the wood gave out an odd little sound of protest and shook in her hand as she glared down at the interloper.

It was Detective Constable Fletch, a troubled expression on his young face and his brown eyes darkened with fatigue. He looked up, blinking at the unlikely appearance of the woman but had the good sense to say nothing on the subject.

Vastra said nothing either, simply waving him inside and closing the door behind them. They stood in the hallway, staring at each other for a few moments before Vastra inclined her head and Fletch gave a nervous little cough.

"Forgive the intrusion Madame but I have grave news, I'm afraid."

"Grave, Detective Constable?"

"For Miss Flint, Madame."

Vastra started. This was news indeed for she had expected the young man to be here to request their immediate assistance in some case or other. It would be just like Inspector Brown to drag the women out of bed at this unforgivable hour.

Vastra's thoughts cast back to some of the less legitimate devices that Jenny had employed in the course of their work. Back particularly to the residence of one Richard Alistair Kennedy and the pilfering of a great many very valuable stones.

"Miss Flint?" Vastra said more sharply than she had planned.

Fletch took an involuntary step back and swallowed noticeably before saying, "Yes, I'm afraid so, Madame. I've come directly from the home of a Professor Hoogstraten."

Again Vastra felt herself on the back foot, as her companion would say. She straightened imperiously and took a moment to consider this.

"You do know of the man?" Fletch said, mistaking Vastra's reaction.

"Indeed, he is the," Vastra hesitated, "spouse of Miss Flint's cousin, Lucinda Flint."

"Yes, well, he was, Madame. You see, he's dead and," again Fletch swallowed hard, "Miss Flint - the other Miss Flint - has been taken in on a murder charge."

Jenny's mood had gone from shocked to numb to thunderously angry in what Vastra considered record time. She had carefully woken her lover, eased her back to the world with a gentle kiss and some whispered words of affection before explaining the situation with as much delicacy as she possessed. Which was, Vastra acknowledged sadly, a very little indeed.

"Bleedin' coppers," Jenny muttered yet again as she glared out of the carriage's little window. She turned to Fletch and gave him a long stare, "Always go for the ones who can't speak up for th'selves."

Vastra shifted uncomfortably between the two humans but remained quiet. As, blessedly, did the Detective Constable. He appeared genuinely upset to have caused Jenny distress and he was after all, only the messenger. Still Jenny ranted in a low, dark voice for much of the journey.

After what seemed an inordinately long time, the carriage pulled up outside Scotland Yard and all three gratefully stepped down into the cool London morning. Fletch lead them through the entrance, passed the desk with a sleepy Sergeant looking forward to the end of his shift and on into a warren of corridors and stairways to the long line of cells beneath the building.

These, Vastra knew, were a little better than the average prison cell in human gaols but not nearly so commodious as the disused office that had housed Mr Draper during his incarceration in Little Sundersley.

The thought had Vastra asking, "Detective Constable, has Miss Flint requested legal counsel?"

"Not as far as I know, Madame. When I left she'd only asked for you two to be informed immediately."

"Looks like we're the defence again, Madame," Jenny said bitterly.

"It does indeed, my dear," Vastra risked a lighter moment, "Perhaps we should retrain?" and then regretted it.

"Perhaps the law should get it right more often," was all Jenny had the chance to say.

They had reached the final barred entrance at the head to the run of cell doors. Fletch spoke quietly to another sleepy officer who studied Vastra carefully before unlocking the barrier and allowing them to pass. His actions earned him only a hard glare from Jenny and then they were through, their steps echoing in the narrow corridor.

It was cold and forbidding even to be outside the heavy metal doors and Vastra thought of the long line of hibernation chambers that housed so many of her sisters. She was startled by the comparison and thrust the thought aside immediately.

Jenny sensed the reaction in her companion and stared up at her, hissing, "Madame?" in concern.

"A momentary discomfort, my dear, nothing more."

"Easily felt in a place like this."

They had come to a halt in front of one of the cell doors. It was made of metal of one large, heavy piece with only a small opening covered by a hatch. They waited, Jenny's foot tapping out an angry tattoo on the tiled floor, until an old Constable ambled towards them carrying a large ring of keys.

He nodded to Fletch but said nothing to the ladies as he unlocked the door and eased it open. Inside was a long but very narrow cell barely wide enough for the thin strip of a bed that filled most of the space. The walls were rough stone, washed white but grubby with use. It stank of human sweat and despair.

At the very end of the room was Lucy Flint, curled into a tight ball and rocking gently. She wore a loose smock that might once have been white, her hair dishevelled and matted with blood. Jenny swore under her breath and rushed inside, ignoring the old officer's cries of protest. Vastra glared down at the man through the heavy lace of her veil and he took a step back.

"Thank you, Cormack," Fletch dismissed the man and then said to Vastra, "I'll give you as much time as I can but..."

He trailed off and Vastra said, "Inspector Brown considers the case to be open and shut, as you might say."

Fletch nodded and walked back to the end of the corridor. Vastra waited outside the door until Jenny had soothed her cousin enough to unfurl a very little. At a nod from Jenny, she entered and stood as unobtrusively as she could manage just inside the cell.

"The painting," Lucy muttered, "the painting, Jen, the painting."

Jenny looked up at Vastra in surprise but quickly turned back to her cousin, "What painting, Luce?"

"The painting. The creatures. The painting."

Vastra sensed Jenny's rising panic and took the few paces forward to allow her to place a calming hand on her companion's shoulder.

"Lucy, my dear, pray what painting?"

"Bought it. Bought it into the house and it did it. Creatures. Tried to kill them. Tried to kill the painting. But they got him. Didn't come back but they got him."

It was the ravings of a woman driven quite mad and Vastra's mind immediately went to the case that had first introduced them to Jeremiah Hoogstraten. The case instigated by Charles Borlsover's occult-induced mania.

Jenny hugged her cousin, rubbing the poor woman's back gently and whispering soothing nonsense just as she had to Borlsover in the Middlesex Lunatic Asylum. When Lucy was calm once more, she slowly disengaged herself and indicated to Vastra that she wished to speak.

They stood just inside the cell, pressed close together, Vastra's head bowed to be level with Jenny's face.

"This is bad, Madame."

"I fear so. You wish me to visit the scene of the crime?"

"I do and quickly too."

"Then I will do so immediately."

To Vastra's surprise, Jenny reached out and pulled her into a fierce hug. Vastra held on, alarmed by the tense set of the body that she knew so well. After long moments, Jenny eased back and visibly settled herself once more.

"Thank you."

"You need never thank me for that, my dear," Vastra gave a sad little smile from beneath the veil and knew that Jenny would sense it. "Now," she took a slow breath, her eyes moving back to Lucy, "you will be all right here, Jenny?"

Jenny too glanced at Lucy and gave a helpless shrug, "I will be. But I'm not so sure about her."

Vastra was unusually nervous as the carriage fought its way through the busy traffic of a London morning. She forced herself to settle into a more productive frame of mind as the carriage turned off Homerton High Street and into Sutton Place. It pulled up outside one of the far homes in the long Georgian terrace and Vastra stepped down gratefully.

The door of Hoogstraten's home stood wide open, a young Constable and a more experienced Sergeant standing guard at the entrance. Vastra raised herself to her full height, expecting something of a battle of wills before she be admitted to the crime scene. To her surprise, the Sergeant merely touched his helmet and nodded her through.

There was no sign of the pinched-faced young houseman but there were a number of heavy-footed officers in the hallway and the rooms beyond, many of them in plain clothes. The lightly scented air that Vastra remembered from her previous visits was now thick with the scent of blood and violence. It grew worse as she was waved on into Hoogstraten's odd little study.

"Ah, Madame Vastra," Inspector Brown said from his crouched position on the floor, "I thought you'd be here sooner rather than later. Miss Flint?"

"With her cousin, Inspector," Vastra said as she too squatted down.

She had to steady herself against the stench of blood and flesh that emanated from what was little more than a pile of offal on the floor. As Vastra studied the human matter more closely, she realised that it was what remained of Professor Jeremiah Hoogstraten. Surely these men could not think Lucy Flint capable of such carnage? Only a creature far larger and stronger than such a small human female could inflict this damage.

"I know what you're thinking, Madame," Inspector Brown said, "and you'd be surprised at the strength a little thing like Miss Flint can muster. Or perhaps not, given your colleague's unusual skills."

Vastra again felt herself rattled by the situation. Had the lace of her veil fallen away? Were her thoughts now so easy to read? A flicker of respect for the generally hapless Inspector passed through her head but she cast it aside with a growl.

"Do not presume to know my thoughts, Inspector."

Brown rocked back on his heels and gave a guarded nod. He stood and offered Vastra his hand to help her up but she ignored it and rose in one fluid motion. She towered over the man and he was not short by human standards. They studied each other for a moment longer before Vastra spoke in a low, still quite dangerous tone.

"Forgive me. I am greatly concerned for both of the Miss Flints."

Inspector Brown relaxed a little and said, "And forgive me my presumption, Madame. You have any questions about this case?"

"In truth, I should like a few moments alone to consider the crime scene."

It was not a request and the Inspector had the good sense to recognise that. He left the room but the door remained open and Vastra could hear him order his men to stand guard. She was to be watched and not to leave with anything from the room. Perhaps then Inspector Brown was unmarried, Vastra thought, since he knew so very little of the benefits of a human woman's garb.

That thought too she cast aside in favour of considering the room carefully; a large study with a long thin workbench at one wall and the rest lined with bookshelves. As far as Vastra could tell, very little was different from their only other visit to Hoogstraten's private space.

There were different items on the workbench, no-longer a beautifully made box containing a strange device but now an odd set of parts that Vastra suspected were not entirely of this world. The parts may have been quite neatly arranged before being disturbed in the altercation but she doubted that Hoogstraten would have known what purpose the device should serve. The bookshelves appeared to be much the same, though some books had fallen in that same event. So too the papers, books and sundries that had occupied the desk.

With such chaos caused most likely in the act of the Professor's murder, it was difficult to tell what might have been different before. With one exception, Vastra noticed as she considered the room at large. There was a painting on the only wall that lacked bench or bookcase. There had been no such decorations when she and Jenny had first seen the room and Vastra found it hard to imagine Hoogstraten as a great collector of artworks.

The artwork in question appeared to agree with that assessment; even through the extensive damage inflicted to the canvas, it seemed to Vastra to be quite the ugliest painting she had ever seen. She stepped around the desk and studied it closely.

The piece was not too large for the room, though perhaps for the space it occupied. It was gilt framed and painted in dark colours on a heavy canvas. That canvas was cut through at various points in the scene, a scene that could only be described as foreboding.

At the centre was a prone cross made of two stout logs roughly bound together. On that cross was held a figure. A human figure with such a countenance of anguish that Vastra felt for the poor soul. His entire body was tense and tortured, his head writhed in agony, his pale skin was slick with blood and gore. Vastra glanced down involuntarily at the remains of Hoogstraten.

She looked back and widened her study of the painting. It was set on a drab table rock on a darkening evening worked in blue-greys and blue-blacks. Around the rugged cross there appeared to be spaces for figures but each had been almost obliterated by the deep slashes of a knife. A sharp blade too, one that had cut into the wooden backing of the canvas. Vastra peered in at what remained of the figures and sensed more than saw chubby little pink creatures, plump and naked like cherubs but with a feeling of such evil to them that Vastra stepped back despite herself.

She took a sharp breath and looked around the room, pleased that the officers outside the door were not watching her at that particular moment. Again, she forced down her disquiet and turned back to consider these creatures more closely. There had been twelve of them in all, if the areas of damage were to be believed. Twelve beings of evil cavorting around the tortured form of a human being. Even to Vastra's more resilient Silurian mind, the image was quite revolting.

It was worse too, for there were two more spaces that she felt sure should be occupied by these creatures. Spaces undamaged by blade, one on each side of the cross; the creatures that had spiked the figure in place.

Yet they were missing.