Desperate Housewives
Clara
"Maud Watts, Maud Watts…" Clara mused, walking at Madame Vastra's heels down a street in Lambeth after they had gotten out of a taxi carriage, "I could swear I've heard that name before…"
"I doubt it. Why should you have?" Vastra said, "A random housewife in 1912 and you are all of a sudden a connoisseur." The rain that had descended earlier whilst Clara and the Doctor had been in Spitalfields Market had come down quite heavily for a while, but had since retreated and in its place a dense fog with the remnants of chimney smoke had emerged. It was gloomy and hard to see anything, and Clara did not think the cigarette had in her hand was helping with the smog at all. Soon enough, though, Earth would be rendered uninhabitable; that was why her sister had grown up on Saturn. She doubted that a few stray cigarettes would do much more harm to the atmosphere.
"So, this Silurian mating season…" Clara began as Vastra led them down the streets to get to whatever encoded address they had scrounged from Emmeline Pankhurst.
"What of it? It's a biological unavoidability. Perhaps you humans are quickly on the way to developing contraceptives – but we Silurians, as there are so few of us awoken from our sleep beneath the ground, are none so lucky. I am only glad to have a wife. Could you imagine if I didn't? The kinds of people I might find myself with…"
"You're not going to try and sleep with me, are you?" Clara asked, and Vastra stopped, and looked down at her through the veil, displeased.
"Why on Earth would you think I would do that?" she questioned.
"Well, you know…"
"I did just say, I have a wife – Jenny and I have been happy together for many years, now. Quite like you and the Doctor."
"I know that-"
"So what in the world could possess you to make an assumption on my faithfulness?" Vastra persisted, and Clara fumbled her words, now painted into a corner because Vastra knew exactly what Clara was getting at, and just wanted to force Clara to suffer through the shame of saying her impure thoughts aloud. "And with you, of all the people?"
"Because… well, because… because I'm pretty, okay?" Clara finally gave up, a slave to her own vanity sometimes. She saw a smirk on Vastra's lips, and Vastra continued to walk again.
"Ah, of course, how could I forget? Nobody can resist the great womaniser Clara Oswald when she is in town," Vastra commented, "I am sure ladies' corsets just throw themselves onto the ground at her feet when the Phantom approaches."
"Very funny…" Clara muttered, taking a particularly long drag on her cigarette to try and get as much as possible out of it before they arrived at the Watt household and she would have to stub it out. "You support the suffragettes, then?"
"Votes for women! Why wouldn't I?" Vastra said, "I am a woman myself. There's always the possibility that my veil could trick the guards at the ballot box – maybe one day I will have my say after all. If not, Jenny will vote for both of us, which is quite a lot better than neither of us having a say in how the country is run. These laws were written by men for men – and men are, you know, in the acutest minority. But I do wonder, you see, at Mrs Pankhurst's claims that recruitment has halted."
"It implies that it's not just suffragettes being targeted by… whatever this is," Clara said, following Vastra's train of thought.
"Precisely," she said, "Whomever this is, is not merely an enemy of equal rights, but an enemy of all womankind, and they are going to very great lengths to make a subservient population. More lengths than those fossils in parliament have the brains to go to, I would say."
"Funny, that."
"What is?"
"You calling somebody else a fossil," she remarked, and thought she caught a slight laugh from Vastra. Clearly, the intrigue of her newest case was keeping her in high spirits. "This all seems like more effort to go to than just giving women the right to vote in the first place, don't you think?"
"Hmm, well, people are surprisingly stubborn sometimes, but I see your point. The movement has been gaining momentum; at this point there are possibly more people in favour of new legislation than opposed, if only for reasons of keeping the peace," Vastra contemplated, "Regardless, this is number ninety-one." She nodded at a house, a narrow terrace sandwiched between a dozen other narrow terraces on either side. The garden, though, was surprisingly well-populated, and there were fresh clothes hanging out to dry on a washing line. "All of these flowers seem like an awful lot of work. Especially in a working class household."
"Planting a new flowerbed is exactly the type of thing an 'ideal housewife' might get up to," Clara said, following Vastra, who held the gate open as they approached the front door.
"But I do wonder where it is they've got the money. A house like this, I would be expecting both of them to work," Vastra said, "This grows more intriguing by the minute." She rapped her knuckles on the door, and they heard fumbling coming from within.
"Don't you get it, just – sit down," a man's voice said, grumpily.
"But that is a woman's job," they heard a girl say within, Vastra and Clara exchanging an uneasy look with each other. Promptly, though, the door was opened, and by a young man, no less.
"Who are you? Not more Panks?" he asked coldly, "I've had enough of you coming round here. She's not interested anymore."
"Panks, sir? No," Vastra said, "I am a detective. One of London's best. I would be in charge of all of Scotland Yard if they would admit a woman into their ranks – but I make do with the most perplexing of private cases. I have been commissioned to look into a recent change of heart regarding your wife."
"Commissioned by who?"
"By whom. And I cannot reveal that, Mr Watts. Client confidentiality. But I have a noted interest in the curiosities around Lambeth, recently – I might I compliment you on the flowers in the garden?" Vastra said, "I noticed they are almost identical to the bright flowers in the majority of every other garden in this area." Clara had not noticed that. A clue that Vastra was correct about the far-reach of whatever faceless enemy they were after?
"Maud did that," he said.
"As I suspected," Vastra nodded, "May we come in? This is my assistant, Mrs Oswald."
"Hello," Clara smiled.
"We won't take long, I assure you."
"I'd like to see your credentials," he said, crossing his arms.
"I am not a suffragette here to try and bring your wife back to that cause, Mr Watts," Vastra said, but regardless produced a business card, and Clara was very surprised when it was legitimate and not psychic paper. Well, she supposed, scales aside, Madame Vastra was a real detective.
"Vastra?" he asked, "An unusual name."
"I'm from the colonies," she answered shortly, "Feel free to keep that card." And, squinting at the writing on it, he stepped aside and let them in, where Vastra continued to peer around for clues in the room. "I have a few questions for you first, though, Mr Watts. Now, I have on good authority that you accused Emmeline Pankhurst of manipulating your wife."
"Aye, she did."
"On what grounds?"
"As soon as she joined that lot – my Maud hasn't been the same," he said, "I don't know what's happened to her, but I don't doubt that those Panks are to blame. And I thought it was alright, too, mind you – not that I'd tell most of my fellows, but what harm can come of letting women have the right to vote? I thought they had a point. But if they're doing things like this…" They were in the kitchen, Maud in the living room.
"This kitchen is spotless, isn't it?" she said to Mr Watts.
"She's up half the night cleaning; I tells her to come back to bed, you know, there's no need for it, I've got hands meself."
"You most certainly do."
"But she insists, I swear it, and nowadays I let her get on. She gets agitated if I try to stop her from cleaning and washing."
"Does your wife have a job?" Clara asked.
"She did have one, but she quit," he said, "Another thing I blame the Panks for. Putting ideas into a woman's head that she oughtn't work for a man – but working for a man for little is better than working for nobody for nothing, surely? It's a pain to admit it, miss, but I can scarcely keep us afloat with my own earnings, that was why Maud got the job to begin with. Good of her to marry me, I think – for love, it was, not status."
"A job where?"
"A secretary, ma'am."
"A lot of the women in this area – do they work in a similar place?"
"Not that I know of," he answered. "Look, are you going to fix my wife?"
"I assure you, sir, if I have the opportunity to help her then I will," Vastra promised, "But at the moment, my colleague and I need to confer, so would you kindly wait for us in the next room for a few minutes? My area of investigation cannot be compromised, you understand." He begrudgingly did what she requested; Mr Watts didn't seem to like spending much time with his wife. When he was gone, Clara closed the door and Vastra lifted her veil and immediately went to examine a window box full of unusual flowers. She lifted the entire thing up.
"What's with the flowers?" Clara asked.
"The flowers appear to be the key," she said, "A key, at least, beginning with the gardens themselves. Don't you think this is a beautiful flower? The sort of thing you might want in a romantic bouquet from the Doctor?"
"The Doctor doesn't really do flowers," Clara said, "But, I suppose they're pretty?" They were the colour of pale peaches with the edges of their petals tinged black, and grew in the most unusual shape, like a trio of rose-heads pushed together into one flower, yet all sitting within a funnel-shape like that of a daffodil, only larger. "Are they alien?"
"No more alien than I am," Vastra said, "This is crocus asperata, a rare genus of flower that grew only in India until some point in the last century when the British trampled them all in their conquest, I assume. A tragedy for the world of flora. Or so it was thought, yet here it is, growing in the window-box of a brainwashed woman, isn't that curious? The ones in the garden are not so rare, but are indeed arranged almost exactly like the ones in every other garden for the last four streets we walked down."
"Meaning what? The flowers are mind-controlling people?"
"That would be ridiculous," she said, putting the window-box down on the ledge above the sink where it belonged. "But gardening is certainly an activity worthy of any perfect housewife. Have to keep up appearances, you know, though I thought that sort of behaviour died off somewhat in the last decade since Victoria's death. Anyway. Do you have any thoughts?"
"Yeah – why do you know all this stuff?" Clara asked.
"It's my job," she said, "The thrill from collecting knowledge is almost as fulfilling as the thrill of a good case, such as this one. Now, we shall talk to Mrs Watts and see what she has to say for her choice in flowers." Vastra pulled the veil back down and opened the door, Clara following, feeling decidedly like a tag-along. But she had to admit, she was enjoying it. Vastra seemed somewhat less stumped than the Doctor, the Doctor who only ever seemed to put the clues together at the last moment when it was almost too late. "Mrs Watts, I assume?" Vastra asked the young woman sitting in the next room. There was only one spare chair, which Vastra took, Clara going to lean on the back of it and observe.
"Yes, ma'am," Maud said politely, standing up and curtseying to them when they entered the room, "Would you like some tea? Cakes? Biscuits? Bread? Any drink at all?"
"We're alright, thanks," Clara said.
"Are you sure? The slightest thing wouldn't be any trouble at all. After all, I feel more comfortable in the kitchen as opposed to in here, I'm useless in here. But the kitchen? That's the only room of this house that really feels like home," Maud said, sitting back down. Clara raised her eyebrows. This sounded like some sort of joke. Mr Watts grumbled something and proceeded to leave, which suited Clara and Vastra just fine.
"Now, Mrs Watts, I was walking here and I did notice the eccentricity of your flowers in the front garden," Vastra said, "A job well done, in my opinion."
"Ah, and as a woman, I'm sure you know all about flowers. We are better at noticing the pretty things in life, while the men are working and making those silly laws," she said, "My flowers certainly are pretty."
"Flowers are a cultural symbol of femininity," Clara said, "Giving flowers, wearing flowers…"
"It's the giving I am most interested in – you have some very noticeable specimens, I saw, in your window-box in the kitchen. I was wondering where I might get some flowers of that sort?" Vastra asked. The smile on Maud Watt's face, which was wide and creepy and failed to be warm and welcoming, twitched. She was very unusual, and when Clara looked into her eyes it was like nothing was looking back, as though she were empty.
"Which flowers?"
"In your kitchen, my dear."
"Yes, they certainly are pretty."
"Where did you get them?"
"Get them? Why, I… they certainly are pretty."
"Do you think they may have been a gift?"
"They certainly are pretty. A gift, yes. I suppose they must be. Pretty things. I can't quite recall," she said. Malfunctioning robot, much?
"Are you familiar with Mrs Emmeline Pankhurst?" Vastra asked, and Maud's vacant smile disappeared.
"She is no friend of mine. She is hardly a woman at all, if she can't see things for how they're supposed to be. The men in charge, and we as their dutiful servants and wives, the mothers of future generations of powerful men and well-behaved women," she said. This was definitely an unusual thing for a woman who had once been a suffragette to be preaching.
"Have you met her?"
"She briefly captivated me, but I changed my mind about all that nonsense."
"I must say I agree with you about it being nonsense, but what, precisely, changed your mind?" Vastra asked.
"I saw reason, ma'am."
"Did anybody help you to 'see reason'?"
"Just what, exactly, are you implying?"
"Nothing at all, I am simply asking questions," Vastra said, "Trying to pin down your change of heart."
"Are you going to accuse me of a crime?"
"I highly doubt it. Why? Have you committed one?" Vastra asked, and Maud did not reply. For a submissive housewife, talking to her sure was like trying to get blood out of a stone. "Perhaps this is an act, Mrs Watts. You are to feign becoming disillusioned with the cause of women's rights, if only to strike from within, and rip out the heart of the patriarchy itself."
"I say! To come into my own home and accuse me of such a thing!" she shrieked, getting incredibly agitated now. Her shouting made her husband come back into the room.
"She is a fragile thing, detective," Mr Watts said, "I did say."
"She is not remotely fragile!" Vastra exclaimed, to Clara's surprise, "That woman is a double-agent! One of Mrs Pankhurst's closest brethren, and she had been put here to convince everybody she has abandoned it, if only to do something all the more heinous without suspicion." Maud stared at her, and Vastra, clearly sensing something Clara did not, continued, "For all we know, the girl is an assassin. A sleeper agent. Sent here to, in fact, kill you, my good man. All on the will of Mrs Pankhurst herself! Death to all men, is that not right, Maud, dear? Is that not your philosophy? Have I, the finest detective in London not rattled your cage enough!?" During this last bout of accusations, Mrs Watts had begun yelling over and over again that it was not true at all, none of what she was saying was true.
And then, when Vastra finished, standing up to make her point better, Mrs Watts – who had also stood up – collapsed backwards onto the floor. Completely unconscious. It had all happened very quickly, and Clara was sure she was missing something.
"Maud!" Mr Watts exclaimed, going to see to her, but Vastra made a move to hold him back, and so Clara grabbed his arm. He wasn't particularly strong.
"Now, now, she is simply suffering, I fear, from the female disease. A case of hysteria, that's all. My colleague Clara, she is married to a doctor, she knows a thing or two about this affliction, having recovered from it herself many times. She will be in good hands, but I advise you to let us examine her while she is not awake to protest."
"Maud…" he whispered sadly, but Clara shepherded him out of the room and shut the door.
"What was that all about? Did she short-circuit?" Clara asked quietly.
"Short-circuit? She isn't a robot, Clara," Vastra said.
"Are you sure? She definitely looked like she was malfunctioning."
"My sense of smell hasn't let me down yet, and I detect that this woman is entirely human. She is not a robot, nor a clone," Vastra said.
"You made her faint."
"My investigation was concluded, there was nothing more she could tell us, and I wanted to see how she would react. Exactly as I predicted, in fact," Vastra said, going to crouch down next to Mrs Watts, "As soon as I saw these, I knew we wouldn't get anything from her." She pushed back Maud's hair to reveal some marks on the skin just behind her ear.
"They look like burns," Clara said.
"They are burns, there's one on the other side, as well," Vastra explained, "They are exactly like the burns one gets from electroconvulsive therapy, a barbaric practice, though the shape of these electrodes is distinctly not of human design."
"They're in the wrong place, though," Clara pointed out, "Shock therapy attaches the electrodes to each temple. Surely it wouldn't work there?"
"Well, the aim of that kind of treatment is to life low-mood, an alleviant for depression, but I highly doubt that is what happened to Mrs Watts," Vastra said, "I fear she has been re-educated, brainwashed. Didn't you see her reaction about the flowers? They must be a gift of goodwill from whatever hypnotist has done this to her, to her and to all the other women in this quarter of Lambeth. Then it will be all of Lambeth, and all of London, until the female population is completely stunted."
"They're electrocuting and brainwashing women just to stop them getting the right to vote?" Clara questioned.
"A fair point, but the real question is who are this 'they'? This is no human technology or methodology. A hypnotist, perhaps, may plant subconscious suggestions, but they would not need to maim in this way to do so," Vastra said, standing back up, "There is yet another layer to this mystery; why target all of the women and not just those troublemakers like Pankhurst? Pankhurst said herself that the most important members of her brood have yet to suffer effects like these. Probably because they live carefully, on the edge – if the police cannot catch them, what hope do these mysterious strangers have? They are taking all the women they can get their hands on and releasing them back into the world like this, docile."
"Then what do the extinct flowers mean?"
"A clue to their origin?"
"But the flowers are from Earth, you said," Clara reminded her.
"Quite so. I admit, I don't have that answer just yet," Vastra said, "But I have found another clue, a final one, don't you see those shoes on her feet? They are awfully small."
"Well, she's a small woman," Clara shrugged, "My feet are small. What's it got to do with anything?"
"Those work-boots over there are the same size," she pointed, "Women's boots."
"Her husband said she used to have a job."
"Yes, and since this change came about her, she hasn't needed to wear them, but this is the most interesting thing," she said, going and picking up one of the shoes very carefully, and turning them over to show their dirty soles to Clara, "This powder on the bottom? I smelt it as soon as we came into the house: gunpowder. Where might we find gunpowder?"
"In the Attaway Arms Company… which is exactly where the Doctor and Jenny have gone!"