The Great Scrimshander Sprocket Fire

I knew Felix wouldn't believe me. Can't say I blame him. If someone told me that she was my great-great-great, etc., granddaughter, hurled back through time by some ghastly mistake, I wouldn't believe her either.

Though, by the uncertain way Felix scans me in my 21st century threads, I sense he's not entirely convinced I'm lying... or a lunatic.

"I'm sorry, Prudence," he says, shaking his head. "What you say.... It's just not possible!"


"Sir, may I have a word?" a voice interrupts.

I glance in its direction. Constable Chutney is standing just outside the open door. He's staring at me like I'm the Black Plague, Beelzebub, and Boo Boo Kitty all rolled into one. His manner says, "I'm not setting foot in that room. Not with you in it, you foul minion of hades!"

Inspector Dapperling shoots him a disgusted glance and steps out, closing the door behind him.

--Then promptly charges back in, all in a dither.

"Prudence, I've got to go!" he pants, tearing around the office. "There's a whacking great fire started at a warehouse in--"

"The Great Scrimshander Sprocket Fire of 1922!" I cut in, remembering one of the few history lessons I managed to stay awake for. "Gosh, and all that cheese," I add wistfully.

His face tells me he's decided that I am a lunatic after all. He grabs his bowler hat and coat, and sidles out of the office, watching me all the while.

Just when I think he's gone, he sticks his head back in.

"Don't go anywhere!" he snaps and disappears.

"Oh, don't worry," I tell the closed door... and lock it behind him.

Zacchaeus' Folly

Everything makes sense now... in a horrifying, surreal sort of way. That blasted contraption Professor Zacchaeus invented doesn't just instantly send you places like the transporter from Star Trek. It sends you places through time. It's a time machine, for cheddar's sake! And I'm its first test animal.

Boy, PETA's not going to like this!

I stagger to my feet, a paw to my throbbing head. "Inspector Dapperling, can we talk--" I shoot the befuddled uniform a meaningful glance. "--in private?"

"You can go, Constable Chutney," he says, raising a quizzical eyebrow at me.

Constable Chutney can hardly get to the door fast enough. The Inspector moves behind his desk. (I sense he too wants to put some distance between us.)

"So, what have you got to tell me, Miss... er..."

"Dapperling. Prudence Dapperling."

He grins. "You are relative of mine then."

I grimace and look away. "Sort of. You see, Inspector. It's like this--"

"Please, call me Felix."

"OK. Felix." I take a deep, calming breath. "You'd better sit down. This is going to be a little hard to swallow..."

Felix

"W-what time is it?" I quaver, feeling queasy all of a sudden.

For the first time, I study the face of the bespectacled mouse. He looks familiar, like I'd seen him before somewhere. Funny though. The memory is in black and white with crispy brown edges.

"And who are you?" I have to ask. It seems important.

He pulls a watch with a long chain from his waistcoat pocket and squints at it. "It's 10:00." He blinks at me amiably. "And I am Felix Dapperling."

I feel like someone's dropped a Slurpee down my shirt. The cold tingles shoot clear to my claw tips. In an instant, I trace the black, white, and crispy brown memory to a family album and a very old photograph of a famous ancestor. This ancestor made a name for himself as a detective with Rodent England's greatest police force, Nubbins Yard, when he thwarted the crime of the century.... in 1922.

"You're not Felix Q. Dapperling, Inspector Dapperling of Nubbins Yard, are you?" I gasp. "Please, Lord. No! No! No!" I pray in my head.

He smiles. "Why, yes, I am," he says brightly. "Do you know my family?"

I collapse like a filleted trout back onto the stinky davenport.

"Yes, you could say that," I mumble.

Two Mice

I find myself lying on something soft. Maybe it's my own bed, and l'm finally waking up from this bad dream.  Oh, I hope so!

I open my eyes a little and take a cautious peek around. No, I'm not in bed. Somehow, I've wound up on a davenport covered in noisy plaid, shabby and smelling of stale cheese.  

A couple of dark blobs hover over me, silhouetted against a harsh light. As my eyes focus, the blobs turn into the heads of two mice. One is large and wearing a uniform with shiny buttons up to his chin. The other is compact and dapper in shirtsleeves, a starched collar, a pin-striped waistcoat, and wire-rimmed glasses. 

"Look, sir, she's comin' to," Uniform says.

"So she is, Constable," Glasses replies. "Are you all right?" he asks me.

I sit up with a jerk. "Y-yes, I think so," I answer over the heart in my throat. "Is there any reason I shouldn't be?"

"No, no. We just found you on the rodentway unconscious and looking... er... displaced."

The mice goggle at me in my leggings and baggy sweater like I'm something from outer space.

"Sorry. I left in kind of a hurry. Didn't have time to change," I burble.

I scan my surroundings.  It's a cramped office paneled in dark wood with a cluttered, scarred desk, an ancient typewriter, an old-fashioned gallows-style telephone, a swivel chair with a burst cushion, a battered filing cabinet, and a tall hat rack with a derby, a suit coat, and an overcoat hanging on it. Behind the desk on the wall are portraits of a mouse and a man, both in elaborate uniforms. They stir a memory from a history class I once took.

I start to worry. An office with no computer, no flat-screen monitor, no wireless telephone, and with the pictures of two old codgers from the distant past plastered on the wall... What could it mean?