the Foundrie at Whyte-chapple for Bell-Mettal being crackt; Being a most Antient Bell nam’d Gabreele.
The other Bells Bought and Pay’d For by Mr. Robt. Clark with the Exeptioun of the Trebble for the Church of Saint Cross in Wilt-shire; the Trebble no Farther than All-Saints-Church nearby.’
‘Alan!’ exclaimed Kim in a voice which cracked like a broken bell itself, so unlike her usual tone that the startled face she made brought a hoot of laughter from Alan. ‘All the time - look - one of the bells is in All Saints.’
Alan squinted at the crabby print and the line of illegible script at the foot of the page. ‘But what about the others?’
‘Easy to look up. St Cross isn’t a common dedication. Good thing it’s not St Mary’s, there are millions of them.’
‘Oh, don’t. Always assuming they are still there, I suppose. But let’s go and look at the treble first.’
‘How? It’s a redundant church. You can’t just go and ask the vicar, ’cause there ain’t one.’
‘Well, how do you get permission to ring there?’
‘Redundant Churches Commission, I should imagine.’
‘More delays,’ sighed Alan.
‘Not necessarily. What do you bet our reluctant host has got something on the church?’
‘Good thought.’
Kim hunted among the books for a few minutes, but the library was arranged on somewhat eccentric lines and they eventually had to admit defeat and ask Rendall. He found for them a privately printed booklet, the artwork for which had been produced on an elderly typewriter with a wayward lower-case ‘a’.
‘Eureka,’ said Alan. ‘Listen: “the treble dates from 1658 and formerly hung in nearby Fenstanton ‘Abbey’ (despite its name, a secular building) prior to its collapse. It was the work of one Thomas Chandler and weighs two hundredweight exactly. The inscription reads: Sum Rosa Pulsata Mondi Maria Vocata, which is to say, My name is Mary; for my tone I am known as the Rose of the World”.’
‘Well, that doesn’t help very much,’ grumbled Kim. ‘I suppose we’ll have to find the rest of the damned things now.’
‘Let’s just hope that the one that was melted down isn’t part of the riddle.’
‘Don’t you just bet it is, though?’
Alan nodded, grimacing, his attention turning once more to the dark portrait. Her eyes looked somehow not fixed in time - as if she knew things. Secrets. ‘That painting,’ he said.
‘She looks like a vampire,’ muttered Kim, who seemed unreasonably disquieted by the portrait. They both stared at it for a long moment. Kim was the first to look away: her gaze dropped to the table, and snagged on the yellowed pamphlet.
‘This may be a silly thought,’ she said, ‘but what if this F.S. stood for Fabian Stedman?’
‘That’s it!’ Alan exclaimed. ‘Dammit, that’s the link. That’s why the name Roger Southwell rang bells. Of course! What a twit!’
‘You going to let me in on this?’ demanded Kim.
‘Stedman knew Roger Southwell. It’s in my notes somewhere - you remember those pieces I wrote for Simon? About ringing in the seventeenth century? And old Matthew Boys and his opera?’
‘Well?’
‘That was when I found it. Southwell and Stedman.’
Kim opened the brittle pages again and peered closely at the line of script at the bottom of the page; she was unfamiliar with the idiosyncrasies of seventeenth-century handwriting, but managed to puzzle it out after a while. Unexpectedly, a shiver walked across her shoulders.
But what became of Roger Southwell, it read.
It was late when Alan and Kim finally got home, having stopped to eat vile things at a horrible pub restaurant en route, but Alan could not shake the habit of study. Whatever compelling enthusiasm was sending him in search of Roger Southwell took him to his own bookshelves, from which he pulled out the little white book known to all campanologists by the name of its compiler, Dove (Alan liked the bilingual pun with the Italian for ‘where’).
The other Bells Bought and Pay’d For by Mr. Robt. Clark with the Exeptioun of the Trebble for the Church of Saint Cross in Wilt-shire; the Trebble no Farther than All-Saints-Church nearby.’
‘Alan!’ exclaimed Kim in a voice which cracked like a broken bell itself, so unlike her usual tone that the startled face she made brought a hoot of laughter from Alan. ‘All the time - look - one of the bells is in All Saints.’
Alan squinted at the crabby print and the line of illegible script at the foot of the page. ‘But what about the others?’
‘Easy to look up. St Cross isn’t a common dedication. Good thing it’s not St Mary’s, there are millions of them.’
‘Oh, don’t. Always assuming they are still there, I suppose. But let’s go and look at the treble first.’
‘How? It’s a redundant church. You can’t just go and ask the vicar, ’cause there ain’t one.’
‘Well, how do you get permission to ring there?’
‘Redundant Churches Commission, I should imagine.’
‘More delays,’ sighed Alan.
‘Not necessarily. What do you bet our reluctant host has got something on the church?’
‘Good thought.’
Kim hunted among the books for a few minutes, but the library was arranged on somewhat eccentric lines and they eventually had to admit defeat and ask Rendall. He found for them a privately printed booklet, the artwork for which had been produced on an elderly typewriter with a wayward lower-case ‘a’.
‘Eureka,’ said Alan. ‘Listen: “the treble dates from 1658 and formerly hung in nearby Fenstanton ‘Abbey’ (despite its name, a secular building) prior to its collapse. It was the work of one Thomas Chandler and weighs two hundredweight exactly. The inscription reads: Sum Rosa Pulsata Mondi Maria Vocata, which is to say, My name is Mary; for my tone I am known as the Rose of the World”.’
‘Well, that doesn’t help very much,’ grumbled Kim. ‘I suppose we’ll have to find the rest of the damned things now.’
‘Let’s just hope that the one that was melted down isn’t part of the riddle.’
‘Don’t you just bet it is, though?’
Alan nodded, grimacing, his attention turning once more to the dark portrait. Her eyes looked somehow not fixed in time - as if she knew things. Secrets. ‘That painting,’ he said.
‘She looks like a vampire,’ muttered Kim, who seemed unreasonably disquieted by the portrait. They both stared at it for a long moment. Kim was the first to look away: her gaze dropped to the table, and snagged on the yellowed pamphlet.
‘This may be a silly thought,’ she said, ‘but what if this F.S. stood for Fabian Stedman?’
‘That’s it!’ Alan exclaimed. ‘Dammit, that’s the link. That’s why the name Roger Southwell rang bells. Of course! What a twit!’
‘You going to let me in on this?’ demanded Kim.
‘Stedman knew Roger Southwell. It’s in my notes somewhere - you remember those pieces I wrote for Simon? About ringing in the seventeenth century? And old Matthew Boys and his opera?’
‘Well?’
‘That was when I found it. Southwell and Stedman.’
Kim opened the brittle pages again and peered closely at the line of script at the bottom of the page; she was unfamiliar with the idiosyncrasies of seventeenth-century handwriting, but managed to puzzle it out after a while. Unexpectedly, a shiver walked across her shoulders.
But what became of Roger Southwell, it read.
It was late when Alan and Kim finally got home, having stopped to eat vile things at a horrible pub restaurant en route, but Alan could not shake the habit of study. Whatever compelling enthusiasm was sending him in search of Roger Southwell took him to his own bookshelves, from which he pulled out the little white book known to all campanologists by the name of its compiler, Dove (Alan liked the bilingual pun with the Italian for ‘where’).
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