Fenella turned to look at him, and oh — she looked upset. Her enormous eyes were larger than usual. Tears prickled on the edges of her long lashes. Starting a conversation with her had been a terrible mistake, but it was too late to back out now. “Ruthven,” she said, her lip trembling. “You didn’t do anything to that footage, did you?”
“Do anything?”
“You know,” said Fenella. “You didn’t just edit something into that episode to be an arsehole. As a prank, or something.”
The thought of editing anything else into that chaotic jigsaw of an episode was beyond belief. It was a clip show from the 80s, using footage from the 60s. Hadn’t it suffered enough?
One part of her accusation stood out. “Do people think I’m an arsehole?”
Fenella didn’t answer him, too busy sniffling into her sleeve.
“THERE,” roared Monterey, almost tackling Oxford to the floor to get him out of the way.
“Ohhh,” said Ruthven, finally realising what they were all going on about. “That’s shot where the sound operators are caught adjusting their boom mike. They never edited it out of the original pilot episode because they’d run out of money. Kind of hilarious that when they edited those fragments into the 80s episode, they left in. I guess at that point the only people watching were obsessive fans… like us?”7
Ruthven trailed off because everyone was looking at him impatiently. “What?”
“That,” said Fenella, pointing a dramatic finger at the frozen black and white image of the paused video. There were two sound operators in that slightly blurry shot — a faceless man, and a blonde woman with big hair. “That’s Cressida.”
Ruthven felt his whole body go very cold. “It can’t be,” he said weakly. “The resolution isn’t that good — are you sure?”
Cressida Church. He knew what she looked like, of course. He used to see her at a distance, in his early student days, before her tragic disappearance. He’d watched plenty of vid footage of her travels since then, and he was used to walking past that honking great statue of her in the quad. He hadn’t been looking for her when he previewed this grainy black and white film footage. He had been paying more attention to the boom mike itself, trying to figure out what make and model it was.
One didn’t turn on an episode of centuries-old television expecting to spot a lost time traveller. Now Ruthven came to think of it, he was surprised it didn’t happen more often.
Monterey stood up to his full height, somewhere around Oxford’s shoulder, looking murderous. “1964,” he growled. “She’s in fucking 1964.”
“How is that even possible?” hissed Lovelace. “It’s not even the right century.”
Fenella did burst into tears then, heaving noisily into her hands. Tunbridge went to her side to comfort her. Ruthven tried to step discreetly away.
Oxford stood up slowly, looking grave. Nero, sensing a speech was about to happen, leaped dramatically on to his human’s shoulder. “I hate to say it,” Oxford said. “But we need to speak to Admin.”
Everyone in the room was shocked. Speaking to Admin was the absolute last resort for most problems, but for Oxford it was practically against his religion.
“Worse than that, old man,” said Monterey, folding his arms. “We need to speak to Professor Boswell.”
Lovelace sighed. “You mean I need to,” she corrected him.
“Yes,” Monterey agreed firmly. “People who are not me need to speak to Professor Boswell.”
1 Practical History focused on social traditions, etiquette and how to figure out the safest possible conversation topic in any given century. The discipline, developed mostly by Professor Mycroft himself, was largely concerned with how to bluff your way through short visits to a century without giving away the fact that you were a time traveller. Mycroft’s tests were legendary, designed to build what he liked to call ‘robust historical reflexes.’ He had been known to leap out of bushes shouting questions like “Fourteenth century France, snuff or no snuff?” and “It’s 1794, have you read the latest Jane Austen?”
2 Ruthven could not pull off the tweedy jumpsuit look nearly as well as Oxford, but people looked askance at you if you walked around the fake sunshiney quad of Chronos College wearing all black, and of all things Ruthven most preferred to be unobtrusive.
3 Cats, of course, are too dignified for cosplay.
4 Fleur Shropshire, the iconic actress who played Lady Ann Wildegreen from 1964-1968 until her character died during the sinking of the Titanic, actually inspired three hairstyle related riots during her short but epic life. This was not one of them.
5 Monterey was a man of many talents. Always somehow managing to find a theatrical crowd who appreciated his charm was one of them. His other top talents included: poaching a perfect egg every time, tying knots, choosing flattering outfits for himself and others, close-up magic tricks, pick-pocketing, and French kissing. He also had excellent hand-writing, though this was not quite as good as his poached eggs.
6 Most early 1960s television drama was shot on video, in long single takes as if they were running a play. Cramberleigh tried to do things a little differently. The original pilot was almost filmed on location at a genuine historic manor instead of in the cheaper studio set versions of the same house to which they reluctantly moved the following year. The unaired pilot retained something of a mythical status among the more devout Cramberries.
7 For decades it was believed that using footage from the 1964 unaired pilot instead of the 1965 broadcast pilot in “Blast From The Past” (1985) was an error, or an ill-advised attempt to avoid paying an extra Equity fee for using so many flashback scenes in one episode. However, the later-published production diary of Jay T. Dee, the executive producer of Return to Cramberleigh, made it clear that this had been a deliberate creative choice “to f**k with the nerds.”
Eight
Introducing Professor Boswell
The marmalade tabby glared into the lecture hall of undergrads from his position on the tilted lectern. First years. They didn’t know enough to be intimidated by him yet. Some of them probably thought he was adorable.
There was nothing more frustrating to a grumpy old professor than being stuck in the body of a glossy-coated cat with big eyes and soft fur just crying out to be petted.
Petting him would be a mistake many students would regret. He might be in a position of authority over them, but that didn’t mean he would hesitate to bite.
“Future travellers!” the tabby boomed, using nothing but natural projection with a hint of ominous vibrato for good measure.1 “This year, we will delve into the inner mysteries of time itself. Please keep your questions to the end. Over the next hour, I will provide you with an exhaustive timeline of the Chronomancial Sciences, and the development of rudimentary mechanics, engineering and natural philosophy in relation to time travel. You will take notes. There will be an exam. I shall not inform you ahead of time when your exam will take place, so I do not recommend that you absent yourself from class without prior notice and an exceedingly good excuse.”
That had them wide awake and scribbling on their tablets. Nothing like a little student terror to make one feel alive.
“I am Professor Boswell,” pronounced the marmalade tabby, twitching his whiskers in a self-satisfied manner. “I am your worst nightmare. Let us begin.”
After the first lecture of the new semester, Professor Boswell had plans. Very important plans involving the staff room, a saucer of tea, and a short nap in an extremely time-specific sunbeam.
He was, therefore, not the least bit pleased to be waylaid by a disreputable assortment of former students.
He recognised them all, of course. Nero, that fluffy white buffoon who thought himself the intellectual superior to literally everyone. Clement Oxford, Nero’s human. Eliott Ruthven, a rather gloomy figure whom Boswell remembered as an enthusiastic essay writer with a solid knack for comprehensive citation. Fenella Church, whom Boswell had taken great pains to avoid for years. He saw no reason to break that habit now… even looking at her gave him a headache. Perhaps it was the particularly virulent shade of green eyeshadow she wore, or her matching boots.
