Mortimer Mouse and the Curious Case of the Vanishing Spectacles

In the twilight hours, beneath the brooding eaves of weathered tombs and amongst the sorrowful whisperings of willow trees, there resided a mouse of uncommon intellect and impeccable taste. His name—Mortimer W. Whiskerby III—was known far and wide among the nocturnal denizens of Whiskered Whispers Cemetery, not for his culinary skills (which were fair), nor for his poetry (which was dreadful), but for his keen powers of deduction.

Yet on the seventh eve of October—a night most peculiar in scent and spirit—Mortimer awoke to find his beloved brass-rimmed spectacles gone.

“Stolen!” he cried, dashing in panicked circles across the top of a mossy urn inscribed with the words “Here lies Lord Buttonfeather, pecked in peace.” “Pilfered! Purloined! Plucked from their rightful perch upon my velvety nightstand, which is, admittedly, a sardine tin.”

Half-blind and wholly offended, Mortimer embarked upon his investigation. With his vision reduced to something between an impressionist painting and a foggy glass of beetroot vinegar, he squinted at every shadow, mistaking gravestones for ghosts, and moths for malicious gremlins. Yet he remained determined. A mystery was a mystery, and Mortimer—nearsighted though he now was—would leave no cobweb unbrushed.

The Interview of Corvinus the Crow

First, he consulted Corvinus, a dapper crow in a monocle and waistcoat who resided on a skeletal branch above the grave of one Geraldine Nibbler, beloved spinster and collector of spoons.

“I saw the whole thing,” cawed Corvinus, sipping dramatically from a thimble of rainwater. “A shadow—low to the ground, fleet of foot. Had the aura of desperation and poor fashion sense.”

Mortimer narrowed his eyes. “A mouse?”

“Possibly. Or a hedgehog in an emotional crisis. Hard to say from my vantage point. But I distinctly recall a glint—metallic, glimmering—just before dawn. It scampered toward the statue of Saint Marmalade, Patron Saint of Lost Teacups.”

“Did it carry anything?”

“A sense of existential dread. Also, something shiny.”

The Interrogation of Madame Purrsephone

Next, Mortimer crept—rather loudly, due to a sneezing fit—into the marble hall of Madame Purrsephone, a Persian cat of such elegance and drama, she refused to walk anywhere without a trail of scented mothballs.

She reclined upon a velvet chaise pilfered from the crypt of Eustace Von Picklebone, her golden eyes half-lidded with permanent disdain.

“Mortimer, darling,” she purred, curling a paw, “are you quite sure you had glasses? Or was it all a dream—brought on by too much brie and unresolved trauma?”

“I assure you, Madame, they were real.”

“Real, perhaps, but necessary? You squint quite charmingly. Gives you the look of a tormented poet.”

“I am not a poet. I’m a detective.”

“So dramatic.” She yawned, revealing a maw of needlepoint teeth. “But if you insist, I did hear a scuffle near the mausoleum of Sir Dobbington. Whispering. Scurrying. And a suspicious smell of elderberry jam.”

“Jam?”

“Or treachery. The two are often indistinguishable.”

The Glow and Giggle of the Firefly Chorus

Lastly, Mortimer followed a faint giggling to the old sundial—a place where the dragonflies gathered to gossip and rehearse their nightly operetta.

The Glowettes, as they called themselves, were five irreverent dragonflies who spoke in chorus and never answered anything directly.

“Glasses? Oh yes, oh my, oh dear!”

“Something sparkly disappeared!”

“We saw a blur, a whisker, a wheeze—”

“Bumbling mouse on bended knees!”

Mortimer groaned. “Can you tell me who took them?”

“Whoooo, whoooo?” they sang, mimicking an owl. “Could be you!”

“It wasn’t me.”

“Then why’d you trip on grave four-three?”

“Because I can’t see!” Mortimer shouted.

“Oh dear, the mouse is blind with rage!”

“A tragic tale! Let’s take the stage!”

They burst into a dramatic reenactment involving paper hats and interpretive dance. Mortimer left halfway through the second act.

The Twist in the Tomb

Weary, disheartened, and contemplating a career in cheese aging, Mortimer returned to his humble abode beneath the mausoleum of Lady Dimplewhit, whose epitaph read: “She came, she sighed, she left a note.”

And there, in a shaft of moonlight, sat his glasses. Perched atop the pulley ledge he himself had constructed to retrieve cookies (and once, regrettably, a beetle).

Mortimer stared.

The culprit… was him.

“Oh heavens,” he muttered, placing the glasses back upon his snout with a triumphant sniff. “The greatest criminal mind in the cemetery… foiled by his own ingenuity.”

He poured himself a thimble of chamomile, raised it to the shadows, and toasted: “To clarity, absurdity, and always checking the top shelf.”

And from above, Corvinus muttered, “Next time try Velcro.”