Big Bang Big Bang: The Last Van Gogh, Part I
Title: The Last Van Gogh
Author: mrssnape13
Artist: fujiidom
Pairing(s): Sheldon/Penny, mentions of Howard/Raj
Fandom: Big Bang Theory, Poirot/Agatha Christie, Van Gogh (because he so has fangirls and boys ^^)
Rating: R-ish
Warnings: Some brief but disturbing imagery and concepts, child abuse (once instance, in a flashback), violence, and Sheldon bashes religion just a little, one time (no offense to anyone is meant at all)
Word Count: 16,825
Summary: Penny knows that there are suspicious circumstances surrounding the death of Vincent Van Gogh, and she and her boys, with the help of Sheldon and famed detective Hercule Poirot risk their lives to expose a plot that threatens to destroy them all and the world they live in.
Author's Note: I hope you will all forgive me for fiddling around with history. A lot of these places and things are real, but I've molded them some to fit the story. Many, many thanks go to Tricia for the beta, without whom this fic would probably never have gotten to see the light of day. Just as many thanks to fujiidom for picking this story, way back when, to make some beautiful art and a great fanmix for. Comments and critiques are more than welcome, and I really hope that those who read this enjoy it and stick around long enough to let me know. :)
And here is fujiidom's fabulous work. Thank you again! <3
Arles, France, July 1891
Vincent waited until his attendant’s steps had faded into the distance before springing out of bed. He threw on whatever clothing was near at hand, whirling about the small room with a panic that sent the sketches and prints cluttering the walls into a whirlwind. He’d been working feverishly for months, each piece he completed bringing him closer to the answer. Every surface of his bedroom was plastered with his work.
There was the Postman, sitting in his cane chair, always smirking at Vincent. The bastard was taunting him.
Next to the Postman was the canvas that held those houses he’d been enthralled with at Auvers, from the first time he’d tried to escape.
And next to that, the image of that night.
The night They’d moved the stars…
He shuddered at the sight of those sworling lights, at the unsuspecting town that lay sleeping beneath, with no idea of what was going on.
Vincent knew.
He saw things that other people couldn’t. How there were no real lines or boundaries in the world, each color, each shape, each atom melding into one another and creating the tapestry that he and the rest of humanity occupied.
He could also see the frayed parts, where They were ripping through the fabric, piece by piece.
Vincent didn’t know who They were, other than the fact that They called Themselves The Council. He could see Them too, though other people couldn’t. He could see how They were distorting the world, warping colors and shapes until they not only lost their essence but became terrible things. Deranged, soulless things that peered at Vincent with their horrible eyes, eyes that promised he and the rest of the human race were next.
The world was doomed unless Vincent could find others who were able to see the same things, or at least convince enough people to believe. If they believed he had a feeling they’d be able to see too.
He’d been very careful, restricting his warnings to his work. No matter what the subject he turned to was, he’d been so careful to leave something just off, to create an image that wasn’t exactly the way it was supposed to be. If people felt a sense of wrongness when they looked at his work, then maybe they’d realize that there were countless goings on around them that were also just off kilter.
But he hadn’t been able to sell a single painting. Or sketch. Or etching. Instead, people looked at his work and laughed. They thought him a madman.
He’d been tossed into the asylum and forgotten by the world at large.
Except for Theo.
His brother always remembered, always wrote to inquire after Vincent’s health. He’d even tried to sell a painting, though to no avail.
Vincent had decided weeks ago that Theo would believe him. He had to tell the other man, enlist his help before it was too late.
He had to escape.
Tonight.
Because They were coming, and Vincent was sure that he was going to die.
There’d been warning signs (he hoped his lack of success was due to malevolent influence and not an actual lack of talent). The worst had been that terrible Christmas Eve, when They’d taken his ear. He supposed he was lucky; They’d threatened to take one of his hands at first.
He’d screamed the words from the Dickens book he’d been carrying-A Christmas Carol- “Jacob Marley was dead! Jacob Marley was dead!”
No one had come.
Vincent knew that had been the only time They would let him go so easily. He still wasn’t sure why They’d released him.
Perhaps They thought he’d be too frightened to make a fuss.
But the world was too beautiful and meant too much to Vincent, even if its inhabitants were not always so kind to him. He’d do anything he could to save it and everyone living on it.
He picked up his rucksack and his boots, which he’d slip on once he was safely outside. It would be foolish to draw attention to himself at that moment.
The night attendant was by then making his rounds in the next ward, but Vincent was going to have to move quickly or miss his opportunity.
He slipped out of his room and scurried as quietly as possible to the end of the hallway. There was a door there that the groundskeeper used to access the building, and Vincent knew that it remained unlocked most nights until the attendant had finished with his rounds.
Luck was on his side; the door was not only unlocked, but opened without a sound. He stuck his head through very slowly, looking left and right to make sure that the groundskeeper wasn’t still wandering about.
Seeing no one, he slipped out the door and took off into the night.
. . .
Just as Vincent entered a small copse of trees on the edge of the hospital grounds, a Bearded Man stepped forth from the shadows surrounding the building. He was smiling. And his smile was hungry.
. . .
No one was on the road either. Vincent was overjoyed at his good luck. He couldn’t even feel any traces of Them.
It was only a few miles to the train station in the next town. He had a few francs in his pocket; just enough to get to Paris. He could easily walk to Theo’s studio once he was safely in the confines of the city (They should have a harder time finding him with so many more people around).
Vincent’s high spirits were crushed the next moment with the snapping of a twig.
They had found him.
The Bearded Man fell into step beside him.
“No doubt this is a pleasant evening for a walk, but I do wonder what you’re doing outside at this hour Vincent.”
Vincent kept his eyes straight ahead and fought to maintain his composure.
“They let me out on good behavior,” he said.
The Bearded Man threw His head back and laughed, but when He next spoke His tone was anything but amused.
“Don’t bullshit an old bullshitter, Vincent. We both know that’s not true.”
Vincent shrugged, forcing himself to keep moving.
Further up the road, another cloaked figure stepped into view.
“You’re on your way to tell Theo. No use hiding it Vincent; we know everything that’s going on in that mind of yours. Dear, doting Theo, always looking out for his poor, sick brother. You think he’s going to believe you? He thinks you as mad as everyone else does.”
“You’re lying, you snake. Theo loves me. My brother loves me.”
“Oh, no doubt of it. But he still thinks you’re loony.”
Vincent put his hands over his ears and screwed his eyes shut, stopping in his tracks.
“Come now, Vincent, don’t be that way…”
The Bearded Man reached out to touch him, but Vincent jerked away before He could get a proper grip. He knew that if the other man touched him he was done for. It’s how They’d gotten him last time.
Vincent turned and ran back in the direction of Arles. If he could just make it back to town, he might be safe. The taverns weren’t closed just yet, and They wouldn’t want too many witnesses for whatever They were planning to do to him.
They kept pace with him as he ran, but still Vincent almost made it to the town’s main fairway.
Almost.
Just as he saw the lights of the main stretch, another cloaked figure blocked his path.
Vincent made to run down one of the alleyways, but as he changed direction, at least a dozen other Shadow Men stepped forward. Every escape route was cut off.
The Bearded Man seized him by the arms now, and Vincent froze in place. His arms were pinned behind his back and his entire body was immobilized.
He wasn’t going to make it to Theo.
A shot rang out and Vincent felt a burning, agonizing pain in his chest.
. . .
The Bearded Man released Vincent from his grip and the artist fell to the ground. Another Shadow Man aimed a pistol at Vincent’s head, but the Bearded Man stopped him with a look.
“But Sir, our orders…”
“Your orders were to kill him. And you’ve done that; it’s just going to be a little slow and very painful. He’s going to linger a few days, really get to stew in his failure.”
The Bearded Man was smiling as if Christmas had come early.
The Shadow Man withdrew his pistol and in an instant the street was cleared, with Vincent left bleeding and alone in the middle of the road.
. . .
Arles, France, 1913
Sheldon Cooper would come to reflect much later in life, long after he was retired and his son George was a grown man, that sometimes the biggest days one will ever know begin as mundanely as possible.
But on the day he lost his parents, he was only ten years old and hadn’t any time to give to such ponderings.
. . .
The day began like any other.
He woke to the sounds of his grandmother and his mother preparing breakfast. He ran out of his room and downstairs into the kitchen, where his father was already seated at the table, reading his paper. It was the only quiet time his father had before the visitors began to arrive for the day, so Sheldon was careful not to disturb him.
It was also the only time Sheldon would see his father until supper, because his Papa would not let him see the visitors. Sheldon insisted that what he told the people was for their own good, but his words fell on deaf ears. Sheldon knew his father thought he was crazy.
They lived in the Yellow House, where Vincent van Gogh had died twenty-two years before. Sheldon’s grandmother, referred to affectionately as MereMere, had found the artist bleeding to death in the street and had taken him in. He had once been her lodger, and she knew him to be a good, if misunderstood man.
MereMere also knew a very great secret, and had shared it with Sheldon, because the boy was bright. He noticed things: small, seemingly miniscule details that other people took for granted or simply ignored. And Sheldon had known since he was quite small that there was something very wrong in the world. At night, he would look out of his bedroom window and see horrible creatures-MereMere called them the Shadow Men.
He only ever saw Them at night. And there was always a Bearded Man with Them. Sheldon was never quite sure what They were doing; They would stand around for some time, and then the next day, he would notice something was gone, or, for example, that his mother’s flowers had suddenly died overnight. Every night They destroyed something else, but the Bearded Man was always there.
Sheldon couldn’t take it anymore. He’d see the townspeople going about their lives, entirely oblivious to what was going on right under their noses, and he wanted to shake them until he could make them see.
He couldn’t stand idly by and just let whatever was going on continue to happen.
He didn’t care how angry it would make his father; that day he resolved to sneak back into the house and make their visitors open their eyes and take a good look around for once.
. . .
The only thing his efforts received was a hard smack from his father.
“How many times do I have to tell you boy!” he shouted. “Don’t go scaring our guests with your bloody fairy tales!”
Sheldon’s cheek stung where his father’s hand had slapped him. Later, he would still have the red imprints of the man’s fingers on his face.
“But it’s true! The Shadow Men are destroying our home! We have to stop Them!”
His mother took him by the shoulders and marched him outside, saying “Alright darling, that’s enough riling up your father for one morning. You go and play outside now.”
Sheldon’s last sight of his parents, while they were still alive, was of his father’s red, angry face as he apologized to the people who had come to tour the house and his mother’s sad, concerned eyes.
His mother shut the door, Sheldon wandered off to sulk in the fields, and his life was never the same again.
. . .
Marseilles, France, 1924
Sheldon saw the short mustachioed man heading in his direction and he knew it was now or never. He loosened the grip he had on the sheaf of papers in his hands and allowed the brisk wind to do its work.
His papers blew right into the path of the other man, who stooped down to help Sheldon pick them up.
“Thank you, Monsieur. That’s very kind of you.”
“De rien,” said the other, who was always polite to a fault.
He stood and handed the papers back to Sheldon, his eyes twinkling benevolently.
“You did not have to employ such a ruse, however, to get my attention. It is clear that you wish to speak to me, and equally obvious that you know me to be Hercule Poirot.”
Sheldon felt his cheeks grow red, but he didn’t break eye contact with Poirot.
“Very much, Monsieur. I believe you are the only one who can help me.”
“Please come and take tea with me then. I was just on my way to my lodgings for that purpose.”
“Thank you.”
. . .
“You’ve come to the right person Sheldon, for you see, I am able to see Them too.”
“I can’t tell you what a relief it is that you can. The only other person I know who has the ability is my grandmother, but she has always kept quiet about it, and she has grown even more wary of Them since the death of my parents.”
“But you wish to speak out. There is something discomposing in your brain; you see that these creatures are leeching the life from our planet. And, you are smart, your little gray cells, they have worked furiously over this, and you realize that you need the help of someone clever and well-positioned.”
“You have hit the mark exactly, sir.”
“And so, you come to Hercule Poirot.”
“You are my last hope. I will do anything that you ask if you promise to help me. I cannot fight Them on my own.”
“And you do not need to. Sheldon, are you interested in being a detective’s apprentice?”
. . .
Yorkshire, England, 1925
Penny woke up screaming for the fifth night in a row. She clutched a hand to her chest, gasping for air.
The nightmare was always the same, and she’d have it several times every week ever since her parents had died earlier in the year.
Killed.
They’d been killed.
Penny told everyone that it had been an accident, but she suspected that it had been foul play, because she wasn’t going to sit idly by and keep her mouth shut.
No one else she knew could see Them-whoever They were-but that hadn’t stopped Penny from meddling in Their affairs. She’d been monitoring Their activities for years, and five years previously she’d discovered certain clues in the works of Vincent van Gogh. He’d known something; she was sure of it. She’d immersed herself in his life and work since then, and was beginning to make a name for herself.
Then, six months ago, her parents, her only family, had been taken from her. She’d devoted herself entirely to the farm and put her research aside, preferring to lose herself in manual labor and estate business.
But sometimes it just got to be too much.
Tonight, for instance.
She slid out of bed and fumbled around until she found her boots. Slipping them on she headed out of the back door and down the lane towards the farm’s small cemetery.
When it all got to be too much for her to handle, Penny went, as she was now, to sit by her parents’ graves. She would talk to them until she had calmed down enough to go back and continue whatever it was she was doing.
Tonight, however, it appeared as if her vigil was going to be interrupted.
A Bearded Man was standing in her family’s plot, smirking down at the headstones that bore her parents’ names. Penny knew right away that he was one of Them, and her suspicions were confirmed.
Her parents had been murdered.
She nearly jumped out of her skin when the Bearded Man spoke.
“It’s not polite to stare, you know. Didn’t your mother ever teach you any manners?”
Penny’s hands balled into fists, and her voice shook with rage when she answered Him.
“Don’t you dare talk about my mother you son of a bitch.”
He turned to face her fully, smirk still firmly set on His face.
“Do you miss them Penny? You must; you come out here so often. It’s your own fault, you know. You’d have been much better off if you hadn’t started prying into things that are none of your concern.”
She scoffed at that.
“You should remember that this is my world. It is my concern.”
He made a horrible screeching sound; the look on His face told Penny that He was laughing at her.
“Oh little girl, this world of yours has been at Our mercy for some time. You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”
“Try me.”
Her words were brave, but at that moment she was very much wishing that she had her pistol with her.
The Bearded Man huffed another awful laughing sound, but His eyes-blood. They were the color of blood-told her that she was in a lot of trouble.
He stepped out of the patch of moonlight that’d He’d been standing in and suddenly He wasn’t the Bearded Man anymore.
Penny saw an awful black mass where He had been standing. Punctuated throughout it were vivid blues, yellows, reds, and greens-all colors that had been losing their luster there in Yorkshire. She saw flowers, and birds, and was fairly certain that she detected faint hints of starlight in there.
Worst of all though, was their sheer number. Penny felt as if she were looking into a great chasm. Suddenly she felt very small and a chill went straight through to her bones.
The Shadow Man made a move towards her, as if to grab her. She knew if He did that it would be the end.
She turned heel and ran back to the house, where she bolted down the hall to her bedroom. There was a pistol in her bedside drawer, and she seized it, cocked it, and waited.
Her breathing was ragged and her heart was pounding in her chest.
He didn’t come.
She stood there all night, terrified right down to her soul, waiting.
. . .
The next morning, she went into the village and listed her farm as being up for sale.
Those bastards weren’t about to intimidate her.
It was time to get back to work.
. . .
London, England, 1932
Something was poking Penny in the face.
Persistently.
She cracked an eye open, her glare promising a swift death to whomever was disturbing her beauty sleep, and saw Raj, hovering over her and holding up a piece of paper.
It said:
“WE’RE LATE!”
“Shit!”
Penny jumped out of bed and practically flew over to her dresser, pulling out her uniform and slipping it on. Raj tossed her the hairbrush from the bedside table and she got to work on pinning her hair back just as Howard came through the front door.
“You guys better be ready!”
“Be there in a moment, Howard! Charlie Chaplin here hasn’t had his coffee yet so he had a hard time waking me up!”
Raj pouted but Penny gave him a pat on the back and slipped on her shoes. She gave her flatmates a hard time, but they were the only family she had. Her boys. Her bookish, dysfunctional boys.
She grabbed her jacket and joined Howard and Raj in their kitchenette, downing the coffee that Howard had poured for her.
The three of them hurried out and nearly ran the six blocks to Sotheby’s, none of them knowing that this was the day that was going to change everything.
. . .
The Fine Arts department was thankfully still quiet when they arrived, but the three of them basically were the department. Its only other denizen was Leonard Hofstadter, an American who had crossed the pond on a study tour several years before and suddenly found himself at home.
The man in question was already waiting for them in front of Penny’s desk, hopping from foot to foot.
“Morning Leonard. Any reason you’re doing the nervous puppy dance this early?”
“We’ve just gotten a new piece. Gablehauser delivered it himself.”
Penny raised an eyebrow. If the boss had taken the trouble to bring it in himself, then whatever it was must be very important.
She went into the small studio at the back of the office, the boys close on her heels.
There was an easel there, with a cloth draped over it. A note was tacked to the top. All it said was, “Think you’ll like this one.”
Penny carefully removed the cloth and gasped.
“This could be the one, guys.”
. . .
They had Raj man the desk while they hid themselves away in the studio. The boys were mostly moral support, bringing Penny her notes when she requested them. This was her area of expertise, after all. The others might all have fancy Oxford educations, but she was the only one who knew Vincent van Gogh. She’d had a lifetime’s worth of experience, reading his letters, finding every book that had been written about him, and painstakingly studying every single work he’d ever produced.
Except one.
She’d been through every catalogue of his works, and if her reasoning was correct-her gut told her it was-then there was one missing. One final piece to the puzzle she’d been putting together her entire life. And it was staring her in the face. At last.
The boys were getting fidgety; she’d been silent too long.
She turned and faced them.
“It’s his. Vincent made this.”
Leonard and Howard let out shouts of triumph. Outside in the office, Raj clasped his hands together and let out a sigh of relief.
Penny held up a hand, signaling for quiet.
“Don’t celebrate just yet, boys. I’m pretty sure this is it, but right now that’s not a lot to go on,” she said, turning to face them and leaning against the easel.
Howard gasped and Leonard’s mouth dropped open.
“What?”
“Penny.”
“Yes?”
“It’s you.”
For the first time, Penny looked at the canvas without her investigator’s eye. The figure there-it took up the entire scene-was robed like an angel. Its arms were outstretched in supplication and its hair glowed like an ember.
The face that she looked into was her own.
The eyes were closed and she was far too pale, but it was Penny alright.
She didn’t even feel Leonard catch her as the world slipped away and everything went black.
. . .
They all stayed long after closing that night. Business had picked up and there had been an auction late in the afternoon so none of them had gotten to spend very much time with the Van Gogh.
Now they were all clustered together, trying to decide just what to do.
“It’s got to be a fake. Penny’s not old enough to have sat for a portrait with him,” Raj said.
“Maybe it just looks like Penny,” Leonard suggested.
Penny rolled her eyes. They’d been having the same argument for twenty minutes.
“Guys. It is real-those are his brushstrokes, I’m sure of it. And it is me. I think I would know my own face.”
“But it’s just not possible,” Howard protested.
“I think all of you would agree that if our theory is right then we’re about to witness a whole lot of impossible things.”
That shut them up for a moment.
Penny faced the canvas again, carefully running her hands over the edges and around to the back of the piece.
“Maybe this is the first sign that They’re starting to affect time,” she murmured. “I very well could be sitting for this portrait at some point.”
The boys gave a collective shudder.
Her fingers brushed against a lump in the bottom back corner of the canvas. She pulled out her pocketknife and made a careful incision. She stuck her hand in and retrieved a small book.
“Penny, what did you find?”
She opened it and saw a message in the inside cover, written in an old, looping scrawl:
Jacqueline Cooper, writing for Vincent van Gogh, to Penny, the girl with the flower in her hair. July, 1891.
“Penny?”
Leonard’s voice startled her.
“Penny please don’t faint again.”
“Who, me?” she said, utterly failing at keeping her tone casual.
She beckoned the boys closer, allowing them to read what she had just found.
“We need to take this and the painting back to the flat. It’s not safe here.”
They helped her pack up the canvas and Howard went to distract the night guard while they snuck it out of the building.
. . .
Penny sat in the parlor, huddled beneath the floor lamp and reading Jacqueline’s journal. Leonard had gone home not long before, and Howard and Raj had retired to their room. One of them would get up every now and then to check on her, but she waved them off when they asked if she needed anything.
By all accounts the journal appeared to be real. Jacqueline-and Vincent-knew that she wore a flower in her hair every day, but they also knew other things about her, things she’d never said aloud to anyone. Somehow they knew that the Shadow Men had killed her parents, when the world at large believed her mother and father had died in an automobile accident. Vincent and his scribe also knew that Penny could see Them, and that she was looking for anything that could stop Them.
Don’t ask me how Vincent can see all this, my girl, for I don’t know, and neither does he. For many years, I too have seen the changes happening in the world, and I know in my bones that something evil is doing it. I have held my tongue; Vincent has not. And now he is dying. They shot him in the chest, and he suffers terribly.
His brother comes on the morrow to say farewell. I think Vincent is just waiting to see him. All the rest of his focus is on the painting he is making for you. He says it is the key to stopping Them.
But he doesn’t know how or why.
He says to trust you though; that you will know what to do.
He also says to look out for the Bearded Man, and that you can trust the Detective and his Apprentice. The Apprentice being the one who will lead you to the answer.
For now, all we can give you to go on is the name of your enemy:
The Council.
The following pages are my and Vincent’s careful accounts of Their activities. No doubt the conditions They’ve created have worsened in your own time.
Before you go on though, I must caution you:
Fight what you can, but don’t get mouthy. I found Vincent dying in the street because of what he did.
Think about that.
Penny threw the book down in disgust. The fight may have cost Vincent his life, but their struggle was for the world itself. Penny had been coming to realize that she and her friends were going to have to risk everything they had and were to set things right.
And Jacqueline should’ve known that too.
Penny was disappointed in the woman, even if she didn’t know her.
She decided to call it a night; she’d need at least a couple hours of sleep if she was going to be of any use in the office later in the day.
And she was determined to give everything she had in stopping whatever was happening. She was a Yorkshire girl, after all, and one thing people like Jacqueline would never understand was that Yorkshire girls didn’t give up on anything.
. . .
She still woke up before Howard and Raj. She put the kettle on the hob, trusting its whistle to wake them up, before settling in again with Jacqueline’s journal. There was still an hour to go before they had to be at Sotheby’s, and she wanted to use that time to compare Jacqueline’s notes with what she and the boys had experienced. They were going to have lots of things to take care of in the course of the day, so she wanted to use every spare moment as smartly as she could.
. . .
First things first: they had to cover their tracks.
When they got to work, the boys went down to Fine Arts while Penny went to Director Gablehauser’s office. Thankfully, he was already in. The secretary showed her through the door.
“Ah, Miss Cuthbert. What can I do for you this morning?”
‘I’d like to discuss the painting you left with me yesterday sir, if I may.”
“Of course dear. Please, take a seat.”
“Thank you.”
“So what did you think? I thought you might be intrigued by such a find.”
“Indeed I was. That’s why it pains me to have to give you such bad news.”
“Bad news?”
“Yes.”
Penny gave him her best disappointed sigh, thanking her lucky stars for the acting lessons she had once taken in school.
“I’m afraid the painting is not a Van Gogh. My team and I stayed quite late last night because we wanted to be sure before I came to tell you. While it is a lovely piece, and does indeed come from the right decade, I am sorry to say that it is not Van Gogh. The lines and brushstrokes are all wrong.”
“Well, that is quite the disappointment. I had hoped to have a tremendous auction for that piece. Can you imagine? The last Van Gogh…”
“To be sure, Sotheby’s would never see another auction like it.”
“True, true.”
He let out a breath and brought his hands together.
“Well, Miss Cuthbert, thank you for telling me. What do you think we should do with the piece?”
Penny shrugged, looking as if she could not care less what happened.
“It’s not even worth the canvas it was painted on, really. It’s entirely up to you, Sir.”
“Well, I got it at an estate sale, so we’re only in it for a few pence. It’s no real loss. Why don’t you keep it? Perhaps one of your friends will take an interest in it, give it a good home.”
“Of course. Thank you sir.”
“Thank you, Miss Cuthbert. Good day.”
“Good day.”
Penny made sure to check her grin until she was safely ensconced in her office.
. . .
The day was spent espousing theories. Though Leonard was a medievalist, he had never heard of any old societies referred to as the Council. Howard had heard of nothing theologically related either.
“They’re secretive though, so it’s not exactly like They’d allow their name to appear in history books,” Raj said.
Silence prevailed for a while, until Penny offered up a thought that was to open the floodgates for all of them:
“I’m not so good with the details here, but for every major catastrophe in human history, hasn’t there been some group or society that is either directly responsible for creating or reining in the chaos?”
Howard and Raj frowned, but Leonard drew in a breath and started to look as if he’d seen a ghost.
“That’s… well, that’s pretty much on the money Penny.”
He stood and began to pace back and forth, allowing the theory to seize him.
“I wouldn’t blame the Council for everything that’s ever happened, but Penny makes an excellent point, and it puts me in mind of something I think we’ve been overlooking until this very moment.
“Every great empire throughout history has had one thing in common, something so intrinsic to the idea of an ‘empire’ that we take its existence for granted. The Greeks, the Persians, the Romans, the Carolingians, the Spanish, the Ottomans, hell, every single super power right up through and including our own empire and the Windsor family.”
“We’re waiting Leonard.”
“A secret police.”
“A secret police?”
“Yes! Think about it. No matter the age or the empire, there is always a darker side to the government, a force that keeps people afraid to go out at night. These ‘police’ have kept people from sticking their noses out for centuries. And we all know what happens to people who find out too much, don’t we? You can name any ruling power you’d like, and I guarantee that those people had a secret, and any outsiders who figured it out were promptly silenced.”
“My God.”
“You’re right, Leonard. You’re entirely right.”
“That must be how the Council keeps an eye on things,” Penny murmured.
“Exactly. What better way to keep an eye on the troublemakers than to have your thumb on the very pulse of whatever kingdom you happen to be in?”
The enormity of their situation closed in on them.
“They’ve been at this for centuries,” Raj said.
“They’re either a colossal force or immortal,” Howard said. “Either way, we are naught but puny academics.”
“The odds certainly are stacked against us.”
“Enough,” Penny growled.
“Penny?”
She stood to her full five and a half feet of height and glared at each of them in turn. Her hands were curled into fists at her side, and they were shaking.
“I won’t hear any more of that kind of talk. This is our world, our home. Whoever They may be, and whatever powers They may have, there are even more human beings who will fight to protect what they love. Those empires you speak of may have been big and bad at one time, but every single one of them fell into decline and knelt at the feet of smaller, determined powers that sought something better. Even our own Britain. The Americans defeated our red coats, and even now Prime Minister MacDonald is making us a laughing stock in The League of Nations.
“So don’t you dare give up hope. And don’t give up on Vincent. There are more people like us, and we’re going to find them and take down this Council.
“So no more defeatist talk, am I clear?”
They were all too cowed to do anything but nod.
“Good,” Penny said, retaking her seat.
She pulled Jacqueline’s journal out of her handbag.
“Now I’d like you all to take a look at this. There’s a puzzle that needs working out.”
. . .
As before, Leonard was one of the first to offer a helpful idea.
“I know a man named Cooper. And he’s a detective’s apprentice. He lives in my block of flats.”
“Excellent. Do you know if he’d be there now?”
“I suppose, unless he’s working on a case, but Penny I must warn you… he’s rather odd.”
“Leonard.”
“Er…yes?”
“Do I have to make another epic speech?”
“No, but Penny, he’s…”
“Don’t want to hear it Leonard! This is an amazing lead, and I say we follow it up. It’s near closing anyway; we won’t be missed.”
Part II
Author: mrssnape13
Artist: fujiidom
Pairing(s): Sheldon/Penny, mentions of Howard/Raj
Fandom: Big Bang Theory, Poirot/Agatha Christie, Van Gogh (because he so has fangirls and boys ^^)
Rating: R-ish
Warnings: Some brief but disturbing imagery and concepts, child abuse (once instance, in a flashback), violence, and Sheldon bashes religion just a little, one time (no offense to anyone is meant at all)
Word Count: 16,825
Summary: Penny knows that there are suspicious circumstances surrounding the death of Vincent Van Gogh, and she and her boys, with the help of Sheldon and famed detective Hercule Poirot risk their lives to expose a plot that threatens to destroy them all and the world they live in.
Author's Note: I hope you will all forgive me for fiddling around with history. A lot of these places and things are real, but I've molded them some to fit the story. Many, many thanks go to Tricia for the beta, without whom this fic would probably never have gotten to see the light of day. Just as many thanks to fujiidom for picking this story, way back when, to make some beautiful art and a great fanmix for. Comments and critiques are more than welcome, and I really hope that those who read this enjoy it and stick around long enough to let me know. :)
And here is fujiidom's fabulous work. Thank you again! <3
Arles, France, July 1891
Vincent waited until his attendant’s steps had faded into the distance before springing out of bed. He threw on whatever clothing was near at hand, whirling about the small room with a panic that sent the sketches and prints cluttering the walls into a whirlwind. He’d been working feverishly for months, each piece he completed bringing him closer to the answer. Every surface of his bedroom was plastered with his work.
There was the Postman, sitting in his cane chair, always smirking at Vincent. The bastard was taunting him.
Next to the Postman was the canvas that held those houses he’d been enthralled with at Auvers, from the first time he’d tried to escape.
And next to that, the image of that night.
The night They’d moved the stars…
He shuddered at the sight of those sworling lights, at the unsuspecting town that lay sleeping beneath, with no idea of what was going on.
Vincent knew.
He saw things that other people couldn’t. How there were no real lines or boundaries in the world, each color, each shape, each atom melding into one another and creating the tapestry that he and the rest of humanity occupied.
He could also see the frayed parts, where They were ripping through the fabric, piece by piece.
Vincent didn’t know who They were, other than the fact that They called Themselves The Council. He could see Them too, though other people couldn’t. He could see how They were distorting the world, warping colors and shapes until they not only lost their essence but became terrible things. Deranged, soulless things that peered at Vincent with their horrible eyes, eyes that promised he and the rest of the human race were next.
The world was doomed unless Vincent could find others who were able to see the same things, or at least convince enough people to believe. If they believed he had a feeling they’d be able to see too.
He’d been very careful, restricting his warnings to his work. No matter what the subject he turned to was, he’d been so careful to leave something just off, to create an image that wasn’t exactly the way it was supposed to be. If people felt a sense of wrongness when they looked at his work, then maybe they’d realize that there were countless goings on around them that were also just off kilter.
But he hadn’t been able to sell a single painting. Or sketch. Or etching. Instead, people looked at his work and laughed. They thought him a madman.
He’d been tossed into the asylum and forgotten by the world at large.
Except for Theo.
His brother always remembered, always wrote to inquire after Vincent’s health. He’d even tried to sell a painting, though to no avail.
Vincent had decided weeks ago that Theo would believe him. He had to tell the other man, enlist his help before it was too late.
He had to escape.
Tonight.
Because They were coming, and Vincent was sure that he was going to die.
There’d been warning signs (he hoped his lack of success was due to malevolent influence and not an actual lack of talent). The worst had been that terrible Christmas Eve, when They’d taken his ear. He supposed he was lucky; They’d threatened to take one of his hands at first.
He’d screamed the words from the Dickens book he’d been carrying-A Christmas Carol- “Jacob Marley was dead! Jacob Marley was dead!”
No one had come.
Vincent knew that had been the only time They would let him go so easily. He still wasn’t sure why They’d released him.
Perhaps They thought he’d be too frightened to make a fuss.
But the world was too beautiful and meant too much to Vincent, even if its inhabitants were not always so kind to him. He’d do anything he could to save it and everyone living on it.
He picked up his rucksack and his boots, which he’d slip on once he was safely outside. It would be foolish to draw attention to himself at that moment.
The night attendant was by then making his rounds in the next ward, but Vincent was going to have to move quickly or miss his opportunity.
He slipped out of his room and scurried as quietly as possible to the end of the hallway. There was a door there that the groundskeeper used to access the building, and Vincent knew that it remained unlocked most nights until the attendant had finished with his rounds.
Luck was on his side; the door was not only unlocked, but opened without a sound. He stuck his head through very slowly, looking left and right to make sure that the groundskeeper wasn’t still wandering about.
Seeing no one, he slipped out the door and took off into the night.
. . .
Just as Vincent entered a small copse of trees on the edge of the hospital grounds, a Bearded Man stepped forth from the shadows surrounding the building. He was smiling. And his smile was hungry.
. . .
No one was on the road either. Vincent was overjoyed at his good luck. He couldn’t even feel any traces of Them.
It was only a few miles to the train station in the next town. He had a few francs in his pocket; just enough to get to Paris. He could easily walk to Theo’s studio once he was safely in the confines of the city (They should have a harder time finding him with so many more people around).
Vincent’s high spirits were crushed the next moment with the snapping of a twig.
They had found him.
The Bearded Man fell into step beside him.
“No doubt this is a pleasant evening for a walk, but I do wonder what you’re doing outside at this hour Vincent.”
Vincent kept his eyes straight ahead and fought to maintain his composure.
“They let me out on good behavior,” he said.
The Bearded Man threw His head back and laughed, but when He next spoke His tone was anything but amused.
“Don’t bullshit an old bullshitter, Vincent. We both know that’s not true.”
Vincent shrugged, forcing himself to keep moving.
Further up the road, another cloaked figure stepped into view.
“You’re on your way to tell Theo. No use hiding it Vincent; we know everything that’s going on in that mind of yours. Dear, doting Theo, always looking out for his poor, sick brother. You think he’s going to believe you? He thinks you as mad as everyone else does.”
“You’re lying, you snake. Theo loves me. My brother loves me.”
“Oh, no doubt of it. But he still thinks you’re loony.”
Vincent put his hands over his ears and screwed his eyes shut, stopping in his tracks.
“Come now, Vincent, don’t be that way…”
The Bearded Man reached out to touch him, but Vincent jerked away before He could get a proper grip. He knew that if the other man touched him he was done for. It’s how They’d gotten him last time.
Vincent turned and ran back in the direction of Arles. If he could just make it back to town, he might be safe. The taverns weren’t closed just yet, and They wouldn’t want too many witnesses for whatever They were planning to do to him.
They kept pace with him as he ran, but still Vincent almost made it to the town’s main fairway.
Almost.
Just as he saw the lights of the main stretch, another cloaked figure blocked his path.
Vincent made to run down one of the alleyways, but as he changed direction, at least a dozen other Shadow Men stepped forward. Every escape route was cut off.
The Bearded Man seized him by the arms now, and Vincent froze in place. His arms were pinned behind his back and his entire body was immobilized.
He wasn’t going to make it to Theo.
A shot rang out and Vincent felt a burning, agonizing pain in his chest.
. . .
The Bearded Man released Vincent from his grip and the artist fell to the ground. Another Shadow Man aimed a pistol at Vincent’s head, but the Bearded Man stopped him with a look.
“But Sir, our orders…”
“Your orders were to kill him. And you’ve done that; it’s just going to be a little slow and very painful. He’s going to linger a few days, really get to stew in his failure.”
The Bearded Man was smiling as if Christmas had come early.
The Shadow Man withdrew his pistol and in an instant the street was cleared, with Vincent left bleeding and alone in the middle of the road.
. . .
Arles, France, 1913
Sheldon Cooper would come to reflect much later in life, long after he was retired and his son George was a grown man, that sometimes the biggest days one will ever know begin as mundanely as possible.
But on the day he lost his parents, he was only ten years old and hadn’t any time to give to such ponderings.
. . .
The day began like any other.
He woke to the sounds of his grandmother and his mother preparing breakfast. He ran out of his room and downstairs into the kitchen, where his father was already seated at the table, reading his paper. It was the only quiet time his father had before the visitors began to arrive for the day, so Sheldon was careful not to disturb him.
It was also the only time Sheldon would see his father until supper, because his Papa would not let him see the visitors. Sheldon insisted that what he told the people was for their own good, but his words fell on deaf ears. Sheldon knew his father thought he was crazy.
They lived in the Yellow House, where Vincent van Gogh had died twenty-two years before. Sheldon’s grandmother, referred to affectionately as MereMere, had found the artist bleeding to death in the street and had taken him in. He had once been her lodger, and she knew him to be a good, if misunderstood man.
MereMere also knew a very great secret, and had shared it with Sheldon, because the boy was bright. He noticed things: small, seemingly miniscule details that other people took for granted or simply ignored. And Sheldon had known since he was quite small that there was something very wrong in the world. At night, he would look out of his bedroom window and see horrible creatures-MereMere called them the Shadow Men.
He only ever saw Them at night. And there was always a Bearded Man with Them. Sheldon was never quite sure what They were doing; They would stand around for some time, and then the next day, he would notice something was gone, or, for example, that his mother’s flowers had suddenly died overnight. Every night They destroyed something else, but the Bearded Man was always there.
Sheldon couldn’t take it anymore. He’d see the townspeople going about their lives, entirely oblivious to what was going on right under their noses, and he wanted to shake them until he could make them see.
He couldn’t stand idly by and just let whatever was going on continue to happen.
He didn’t care how angry it would make his father; that day he resolved to sneak back into the house and make their visitors open their eyes and take a good look around for once.
. . .
The only thing his efforts received was a hard smack from his father.
“How many times do I have to tell you boy!” he shouted. “Don’t go scaring our guests with your bloody fairy tales!”
Sheldon’s cheek stung where his father’s hand had slapped him. Later, he would still have the red imprints of the man’s fingers on his face.
“But it’s true! The Shadow Men are destroying our home! We have to stop Them!”
His mother took him by the shoulders and marched him outside, saying “Alright darling, that’s enough riling up your father for one morning. You go and play outside now.”
Sheldon’s last sight of his parents, while they were still alive, was of his father’s red, angry face as he apologized to the people who had come to tour the house and his mother’s sad, concerned eyes.
His mother shut the door, Sheldon wandered off to sulk in the fields, and his life was never the same again.
. . .
Marseilles, France, 1924
Sheldon saw the short mustachioed man heading in his direction and he knew it was now or never. He loosened the grip he had on the sheaf of papers in his hands and allowed the brisk wind to do its work.
His papers blew right into the path of the other man, who stooped down to help Sheldon pick them up.
“Thank you, Monsieur. That’s very kind of you.”
“De rien,” said the other, who was always polite to a fault.
He stood and handed the papers back to Sheldon, his eyes twinkling benevolently.
“You did not have to employ such a ruse, however, to get my attention. It is clear that you wish to speak to me, and equally obvious that you know me to be Hercule Poirot.”
Sheldon felt his cheeks grow red, but he didn’t break eye contact with Poirot.
“Very much, Monsieur. I believe you are the only one who can help me.”
“Please come and take tea with me then. I was just on my way to my lodgings for that purpose.”
“Thank you.”
. . .
“You’ve come to the right person Sheldon, for you see, I am able to see Them too.”
“I can’t tell you what a relief it is that you can. The only other person I know who has the ability is my grandmother, but she has always kept quiet about it, and she has grown even more wary of Them since the death of my parents.”
“But you wish to speak out. There is something discomposing in your brain; you see that these creatures are leeching the life from our planet. And, you are smart, your little gray cells, they have worked furiously over this, and you realize that you need the help of someone clever and well-positioned.”
“You have hit the mark exactly, sir.”
“And so, you come to Hercule Poirot.”
“You are my last hope. I will do anything that you ask if you promise to help me. I cannot fight Them on my own.”
“And you do not need to. Sheldon, are you interested in being a detective’s apprentice?”
. . .
Yorkshire, England, 1925
Penny woke up screaming for the fifth night in a row. She clutched a hand to her chest, gasping for air.
The nightmare was always the same, and she’d have it several times every week ever since her parents had died earlier in the year.
Killed.
They’d been killed.
Penny told everyone that it had been an accident, but she suspected that it had been foul play, because she wasn’t going to sit idly by and keep her mouth shut.
No one else she knew could see Them-whoever They were-but that hadn’t stopped Penny from meddling in Their affairs. She’d been monitoring Their activities for years, and five years previously she’d discovered certain clues in the works of Vincent van Gogh. He’d known something; she was sure of it. She’d immersed herself in his life and work since then, and was beginning to make a name for herself.
Then, six months ago, her parents, her only family, had been taken from her. She’d devoted herself entirely to the farm and put her research aside, preferring to lose herself in manual labor and estate business.
But sometimes it just got to be too much.
Tonight, for instance.
She slid out of bed and fumbled around until she found her boots. Slipping them on she headed out of the back door and down the lane towards the farm’s small cemetery.
When it all got to be too much for her to handle, Penny went, as she was now, to sit by her parents’ graves. She would talk to them until she had calmed down enough to go back and continue whatever it was she was doing.
Tonight, however, it appeared as if her vigil was going to be interrupted.
A Bearded Man was standing in her family’s plot, smirking down at the headstones that bore her parents’ names. Penny knew right away that he was one of Them, and her suspicions were confirmed.
Her parents had been murdered.
She nearly jumped out of her skin when the Bearded Man spoke.
“It’s not polite to stare, you know. Didn’t your mother ever teach you any manners?”
Penny’s hands balled into fists, and her voice shook with rage when she answered Him.
“Don’t you dare talk about my mother you son of a bitch.”
He turned to face her fully, smirk still firmly set on His face.
“Do you miss them Penny? You must; you come out here so often. It’s your own fault, you know. You’d have been much better off if you hadn’t started prying into things that are none of your concern.”
She scoffed at that.
“You should remember that this is my world. It is my concern.”
He made a horrible screeching sound; the look on His face told Penny that He was laughing at her.
“Oh little girl, this world of yours has been at Our mercy for some time. You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”
“Try me.”
Her words were brave, but at that moment she was very much wishing that she had her pistol with her.
The Bearded Man huffed another awful laughing sound, but His eyes-blood. They were the color of blood-told her that she was in a lot of trouble.
He stepped out of the patch of moonlight that’d He’d been standing in and suddenly He wasn’t the Bearded Man anymore.
Penny saw an awful black mass where He had been standing. Punctuated throughout it were vivid blues, yellows, reds, and greens-all colors that had been losing their luster there in Yorkshire. She saw flowers, and birds, and was fairly certain that she detected faint hints of starlight in there.
Worst of all though, was their sheer number. Penny felt as if she were looking into a great chasm. Suddenly she felt very small and a chill went straight through to her bones.
The Shadow Man made a move towards her, as if to grab her. She knew if He did that it would be the end.
She turned heel and ran back to the house, where she bolted down the hall to her bedroom. There was a pistol in her bedside drawer, and she seized it, cocked it, and waited.
Her breathing was ragged and her heart was pounding in her chest.
He didn’t come.
She stood there all night, terrified right down to her soul, waiting.
. . .
The next morning, she went into the village and listed her farm as being up for sale.
Those bastards weren’t about to intimidate her.
It was time to get back to work.
. . .
London, England, 1932
Something was poking Penny in the face.
Persistently.
She cracked an eye open, her glare promising a swift death to whomever was disturbing her beauty sleep, and saw Raj, hovering over her and holding up a piece of paper.
It said:
“WE’RE LATE!”
“Shit!”
Penny jumped out of bed and practically flew over to her dresser, pulling out her uniform and slipping it on. Raj tossed her the hairbrush from the bedside table and she got to work on pinning her hair back just as Howard came through the front door.
“You guys better be ready!”
“Be there in a moment, Howard! Charlie Chaplin here hasn’t had his coffee yet so he had a hard time waking me up!”
Raj pouted but Penny gave him a pat on the back and slipped on her shoes. She gave her flatmates a hard time, but they were the only family she had. Her boys. Her bookish, dysfunctional boys.
She grabbed her jacket and joined Howard and Raj in their kitchenette, downing the coffee that Howard had poured for her.
The three of them hurried out and nearly ran the six blocks to Sotheby’s, none of them knowing that this was the day that was going to change everything.
. . .
The Fine Arts department was thankfully still quiet when they arrived, but the three of them basically were the department. Its only other denizen was Leonard Hofstadter, an American who had crossed the pond on a study tour several years before and suddenly found himself at home.
The man in question was already waiting for them in front of Penny’s desk, hopping from foot to foot.
“Morning Leonard. Any reason you’re doing the nervous puppy dance this early?”
“We’ve just gotten a new piece. Gablehauser delivered it himself.”
Penny raised an eyebrow. If the boss had taken the trouble to bring it in himself, then whatever it was must be very important.
She went into the small studio at the back of the office, the boys close on her heels.
There was an easel there, with a cloth draped over it. A note was tacked to the top. All it said was, “Think you’ll like this one.”
Penny carefully removed the cloth and gasped.
“This could be the one, guys.”
. . .
They had Raj man the desk while they hid themselves away in the studio. The boys were mostly moral support, bringing Penny her notes when she requested them. This was her area of expertise, after all. The others might all have fancy Oxford educations, but she was the only one who knew Vincent van Gogh. She’d had a lifetime’s worth of experience, reading his letters, finding every book that had been written about him, and painstakingly studying every single work he’d ever produced.
Except one.
She’d been through every catalogue of his works, and if her reasoning was correct-her gut told her it was-then there was one missing. One final piece to the puzzle she’d been putting together her entire life. And it was staring her in the face. At last.
The boys were getting fidgety; she’d been silent too long.
She turned and faced them.
“It’s his. Vincent made this.”
Leonard and Howard let out shouts of triumph. Outside in the office, Raj clasped his hands together and let out a sigh of relief.
Penny held up a hand, signaling for quiet.
“Don’t celebrate just yet, boys. I’m pretty sure this is it, but right now that’s not a lot to go on,” she said, turning to face them and leaning against the easel.
Howard gasped and Leonard’s mouth dropped open.
“What?”
“Penny.”
“Yes?”
“It’s you.”
For the first time, Penny looked at the canvas without her investigator’s eye. The figure there-it took up the entire scene-was robed like an angel. Its arms were outstretched in supplication and its hair glowed like an ember.
The face that she looked into was her own.
The eyes were closed and she was far too pale, but it was Penny alright.
She didn’t even feel Leonard catch her as the world slipped away and everything went black.
. . .
They all stayed long after closing that night. Business had picked up and there had been an auction late in the afternoon so none of them had gotten to spend very much time with the Van Gogh.
Now they were all clustered together, trying to decide just what to do.
“It’s got to be a fake. Penny’s not old enough to have sat for a portrait with him,” Raj said.
“Maybe it just looks like Penny,” Leonard suggested.
Penny rolled her eyes. They’d been having the same argument for twenty minutes.
“Guys. It is real-those are his brushstrokes, I’m sure of it. And it is me. I think I would know my own face.”
“But it’s just not possible,” Howard protested.
“I think all of you would agree that if our theory is right then we’re about to witness a whole lot of impossible things.”
That shut them up for a moment.
Penny faced the canvas again, carefully running her hands over the edges and around to the back of the piece.
“Maybe this is the first sign that They’re starting to affect time,” she murmured. “I very well could be sitting for this portrait at some point.”
The boys gave a collective shudder.
Her fingers brushed against a lump in the bottom back corner of the canvas. She pulled out her pocketknife and made a careful incision. She stuck her hand in and retrieved a small book.
“Penny, what did you find?”
She opened it and saw a message in the inside cover, written in an old, looping scrawl:
Jacqueline Cooper, writing for Vincent van Gogh, to Penny, the girl with the flower in her hair. July, 1891.
“Penny?”
Leonard’s voice startled her.
“Penny please don’t faint again.”
“Who, me?” she said, utterly failing at keeping her tone casual.
She beckoned the boys closer, allowing them to read what she had just found.
“We need to take this and the painting back to the flat. It’s not safe here.”
They helped her pack up the canvas and Howard went to distract the night guard while they snuck it out of the building.
. . .
Penny sat in the parlor, huddled beneath the floor lamp and reading Jacqueline’s journal. Leonard had gone home not long before, and Howard and Raj had retired to their room. One of them would get up every now and then to check on her, but she waved them off when they asked if she needed anything.
By all accounts the journal appeared to be real. Jacqueline-and Vincent-knew that she wore a flower in her hair every day, but they also knew other things about her, things she’d never said aloud to anyone. Somehow they knew that the Shadow Men had killed her parents, when the world at large believed her mother and father had died in an automobile accident. Vincent and his scribe also knew that Penny could see Them, and that she was looking for anything that could stop Them.
Don’t ask me how Vincent can see all this, my girl, for I don’t know, and neither does he. For many years, I too have seen the changes happening in the world, and I know in my bones that something evil is doing it. I have held my tongue; Vincent has not. And now he is dying. They shot him in the chest, and he suffers terribly.
His brother comes on the morrow to say farewell. I think Vincent is just waiting to see him. All the rest of his focus is on the painting he is making for you. He says it is the key to stopping Them.
But he doesn’t know how or why.
He says to trust you though; that you will know what to do.
He also says to look out for the Bearded Man, and that you can trust the Detective and his Apprentice. The Apprentice being the one who will lead you to the answer.
For now, all we can give you to go on is the name of your enemy:
The Council.
The following pages are my and Vincent’s careful accounts of Their activities. No doubt the conditions They’ve created have worsened in your own time.
Before you go on though, I must caution you:
Fight what you can, but don’t get mouthy. I found Vincent dying in the street because of what he did.
Think about that.
Penny threw the book down in disgust. The fight may have cost Vincent his life, but their struggle was for the world itself. Penny had been coming to realize that she and her friends were going to have to risk everything they had and were to set things right.
And Jacqueline should’ve known that too.
Penny was disappointed in the woman, even if she didn’t know her.
She decided to call it a night; she’d need at least a couple hours of sleep if she was going to be of any use in the office later in the day.
And she was determined to give everything she had in stopping whatever was happening. She was a Yorkshire girl, after all, and one thing people like Jacqueline would never understand was that Yorkshire girls didn’t give up on anything.
. . .
She still woke up before Howard and Raj. She put the kettle on the hob, trusting its whistle to wake them up, before settling in again with Jacqueline’s journal. There was still an hour to go before they had to be at Sotheby’s, and she wanted to use that time to compare Jacqueline’s notes with what she and the boys had experienced. They were going to have lots of things to take care of in the course of the day, so she wanted to use every spare moment as smartly as she could.
. . .
First things first: they had to cover their tracks.
When they got to work, the boys went down to Fine Arts while Penny went to Director Gablehauser’s office. Thankfully, he was already in. The secretary showed her through the door.
“Ah, Miss Cuthbert. What can I do for you this morning?”
‘I’d like to discuss the painting you left with me yesterday sir, if I may.”
“Of course dear. Please, take a seat.”
“Thank you.”
“So what did you think? I thought you might be intrigued by such a find.”
“Indeed I was. That’s why it pains me to have to give you such bad news.”
“Bad news?”
“Yes.”
Penny gave him her best disappointed sigh, thanking her lucky stars for the acting lessons she had once taken in school.
“I’m afraid the painting is not a Van Gogh. My team and I stayed quite late last night because we wanted to be sure before I came to tell you. While it is a lovely piece, and does indeed come from the right decade, I am sorry to say that it is not Van Gogh. The lines and brushstrokes are all wrong.”
“Well, that is quite the disappointment. I had hoped to have a tremendous auction for that piece. Can you imagine? The last Van Gogh…”
“To be sure, Sotheby’s would never see another auction like it.”
“True, true.”
He let out a breath and brought his hands together.
“Well, Miss Cuthbert, thank you for telling me. What do you think we should do with the piece?”
Penny shrugged, looking as if she could not care less what happened.
“It’s not even worth the canvas it was painted on, really. It’s entirely up to you, Sir.”
“Well, I got it at an estate sale, so we’re only in it for a few pence. It’s no real loss. Why don’t you keep it? Perhaps one of your friends will take an interest in it, give it a good home.”
“Of course. Thank you sir.”
“Thank you, Miss Cuthbert. Good day.”
“Good day.”
Penny made sure to check her grin until she was safely ensconced in her office.
. . .
The day was spent espousing theories. Though Leonard was a medievalist, he had never heard of any old societies referred to as the Council. Howard had heard of nothing theologically related either.
“They’re secretive though, so it’s not exactly like They’d allow their name to appear in history books,” Raj said.
Silence prevailed for a while, until Penny offered up a thought that was to open the floodgates for all of them:
“I’m not so good with the details here, but for every major catastrophe in human history, hasn’t there been some group or society that is either directly responsible for creating or reining in the chaos?”
Howard and Raj frowned, but Leonard drew in a breath and started to look as if he’d seen a ghost.
“That’s… well, that’s pretty much on the money Penny.”
He stood and began to pace back and forth, allowing the theory to seize him.
“I wouldn’t blame the Council for everything that’s ever happened, but Penny makes an excellent point, and it puts me in mind of something I think we’ve been overlooking until this very moment.
“Every great empire throughout history has had one thing in common, something so intrinsic to the idea of an ‘empire’ that we take its existence for granted. The Greeks, the Persians, the Romans, the Carolingians, the Spanish, the Ottomans, hell, every single super power right up through and including our own empire and the Windsor family.”
“We’re waiting Leonard.”
“A secret police.”
“A secret police?”
“Yes! Think about it. No matter the age or the empire, there is always a darker side to the government, a force that keeps people afraid to go out at night. These ‘police’ have kept people from sticking their noses out for centuries. And we all know what happens to people who find out too much, don’t we? You can name any ruling power you’d like, and I guarantee that those people had a secret, and any outsiders who figured it out were promptly silenced.”
“My God.”
“You’re right, Leonard. You’re entirely right.”
“That must be how the Council keeps an eye on things,” Penny murmured.
“Exactly. What better way to keep an eye on the troublemakers than to have your thumb on the very pulse of whatever kingdom you happen to be in?”
The enormity of their situation closed in on them.
“They’ve been at this for centuries,” Raj said.
“They’re either a colossal force or immortal,” Howard said. “Either way, we are naught but puny academics.”
“The odds certainly are stacked against us.”
“Enough,” Penny growled.
“Penny?”
She stood to her full five and a half feet of height and glared at each of them in turn. Her hands were curled into fists at her side, and they were shaking.
“I won’t hear any more of that kind of talk. This is our world, our home. Whoever They may be, and whatever powers They may have, there are even more human beings who will fight to protect what they love. Those empires you speak of may have been big and bad at one time, but every single one of them fell into decline and knelt at the feet of smaller, determined powers that sought something better. Even our own Britain. The Americans defeated our red coats, and even now Prime Minister MacDonald is making us a laughing stock in The League of Nations.
“So don’t you dare give up hope. And don’t give up on Vincent. There are more people like us, and we’re going to find them and take down this Council.
“So no more defeatist talk, am I clear?”
They were all too cowed to do anything but nod.
“Good,” Penny said, retaking her seat.
She pulled Jacqueline’s journal out of her handbag.
“Now I’d like you all to take a look at this. There’s a puzzle that needs working out.”
. . .
As before, Leonard was one of the first to offer a helpful idea.
“I know a man named Cooper. And he’s a detective’s apprentice. He lives in my block of flats.”
“Excellent. Do you know if he’d be there now?”
“I suppose, unless he’s working on a case, but Penny I must warn you… he’s rather odd.”
“Leonard.”
“Er…yes?”
“Do I have to make another epic speech?”
“No, but Penny, he’s…”
“Don’t want to hear it Leonard! This is an amazing lead, and I say we follow it up. It’s near closing anyway; we won’t be missed.”
Part II