Jackaby (Jackaby #1)(68)
In 1861, a civil war shook the country. Men and boys who had grown up to the tolling of the church bells were called away, and those left behind did all they could to support the war effort. The vicar at that time felt it was his duty to contribute as well, and so he offered up the beautiful bells to be melted down and reduced to cannons or blades.
The very day the bells were removed, the vicar developed a terrible fever and a sharp ringing in his ears. Relics of the church had been reduced to weapons, fated to help brothers slaughter brothers. It was an unholy day, indeed. When his temperature finally broke, the vicar found he had lost his hearing entirely.
Meanwhile, the soldier responsible for their transport was overcome with an urge to preserve at least some memento of the magnificent bells. Against orders, and against his own better judgment, he saw that small scraps of each were set aside. These he brought back to his own hometown and presented to a master craftsman he knew capable of reforging the metal. A bell, once rung, wants to ring, and he asked the man if he could return to them their voices in some way.
The smith melted and cast the shards into three wholly unique tuning forks. There was never any question in his mind as to which tone each fork should possess, for the metal sang to him from the first pump of the bellows. When he had finished, they each hummed the very same notes they had rung in the bell tower.
There was something stranger still about the forks. Each had become a pure and concentrated version of its former self, and carried with it the emotional power of its past incarnation.
The lowest, its toll accustomed to sounding the slow announcement of funerals, was imbued with a tone of somber tragedy. Those who heard it could not help but shed a tear. Not so powerful as a banshee’s keen, the note was like a single moment stolen from her complex melody of sorrow. Still, the sensation would wash instantly over any who now heard it chime.
The second fork, forged from the middle bell, had faithfully rung every hour for nearly six centuries. It had been a comfort to the townsfolk, and a beacon to guide them home when the mist and fog had turned them about in the hills. The middle fork, when sounded, issued a sense of normalcy and calm. It cut through the fog of fear and turmoil to reassure any in earshot.
The last fork, the highest, came from the bell used to announce the most joyous occasions: the births of children, baptisms, marriages, and all manner of celebrations. The fork forged from this bell could elate listeners with a single sound. While its tone held out, it became possible to forget the everyday stresses of life and be overcome with happiness.
These artifacts played a small role in the recent unpleasantness, which my assistant, against my advisement, has given the ridiculous title of “The Case of the Silent Scream.” During our investigation, I carefully selected the second fork, a middle-C, to instill in the doomed Mr. Henderson a sense of calm. This was a careful and deliberate choice. Had I rung the low tone, his misery would only have intensified. The highest note would have sent him into a state of madness from two supernatural sources pulling his mind toward opposite emotional extremes. The implementation of this invaluable resource proved an integral step in unlocking the mystery and putting a stop to the murders.
I hope, now, that you can appreciate the value of the complete set in my line of work. Miss Rook has suggested that a written reminder might aid in expediting the return to me of the aforementioned middle-C, still being held in evidence in spite of the closing question.
When Jackaby had finished dictating and left the room, I wrote a second letter. It read: Please return Jackaby’s tuning fork. He’s getting even more obnoxious than usual. This I sent out with the morning’s post.
The courier arrived that evening.
Jackaby was pleasantly surprised to find that the letter had prevailed. “At least someone in that station house has some sense,” he remarked. “I scarcely believed the dunderheads would bother to read it at all, but look.”
He passed me the note as he exhumed his property from the wrapping. The processing officer had written just three words. I smiled as I read them. I completely understand.