Seven of the ropes were tied. Martin Vale noticed the eighth before he had taken off his coat. He stood just inside the ringing chamber, one hand still on the heavy door behind him, and looked across at the tenor rope. It lay on the boards in a loose curve. For several seconds he did nothing. Then he shut the door.
"Who the hell's been in here?"
The question went unanswered. It was twenty past six on Wednesday evening. Practice began at seven, but Martin had been Captain of Ringers for eleven years and had never yet arrived less than half an hour before his ringers. There were lights to put on, windows to open when the weather allowed it, occasional spiders to evict from places where nervous learners might see them, and a hundred small things which, in Martin's opinion, distinguished a properly run tower from a shambles.
The ropes hung in a circle around him. Seven were as he expected to find them, their down knots tied after the bells had been rung down at the end of Sunday service. The tenor was not.
Martin crossed the chamber. He remembered Sunday particularly well because Peter Wills had rung the tenor down and made rather hard work of it. Martin had stood beside him for the last few pulls.
“Steady. Don't fight it. Let the bell tell you what it's doing.”
Eventually the tenor had settled. Martin himself had tied the rope. He was certain of that. Now the knot was gone.
He crouched. The rope had been left carelessly, its end running across the floorboards towards the wall. He picked it up and examined it without quite knowing what he expected to find. Nothing. It was a rope. He let it fall.
There was a mark on the floor beneath it. Martin bent closer. The ringing chamber was never spotless. Ancient floorboards and bell-ringers were not a combination calculated to delight a fastidious housekeeper. There were old scuffs everywhere. This was different. A faint grey impression lay just to the left of where the tenor rope normally hung. Part of a heel, perhaps. Another mark was visible several inches away. Boots. Someone had stood there.
Martin straightened. His irritation was becoming unease. There were innocent explanations. A churchwarden might have brought somebody up, or one of his own band might have come in. But none of them would have left a rope like this.
He took hold of the tenor rope. He gave it a cautious pull. Resistance. Martin stopped. There was nothing remarkable about the resistance. The tenor was down, and it took some effort to start that weight of metal moving. Nevertheless, something felt wrong.
He pulled again. The rope descended a little. Above him came a sound. Not a bell. Something else. A dull movement of timber, followed by a scrape. Then silence. Martin stared at the ceiling.
"Hello?"
Nothing.
He gave the rope the smallest exploratory movement. Again there was resistance. He released it.
"Anyone up there?"
His own voice came back from the stonework. Martin remained beneath the tenor for several seconds. Then he crossed to the tower stairs.
He found the man near the tenor. At first Martin couldn't understand what he was looking at. The belfry was a confusion of massive timbers, wheels, ropes and bells, familiar enough to him that ordinarily he could have moved through it almost without thought. But the shape between the tenor wheel and the frame did not belong there, and for a moment his mind refused to make it into a human being. Then he saw a hand.
"Oh, Christ."
He moved closer. The man was jammed awkwardly between the wheel and the frame, his body twisted beneath him. There was blood on the timber beside his head. One arm had fallen through the wheel. Martin knew immediately that he was dead. He nevertheless said:
"Can you hear me?"
There was no response. He did not touch him.
It was the silence that struck him. A bell tower is never entirely silent. There is the wind beyond the louvres, pigeons, traffic below, timber settling, the distant life of a town. But that evening it seemed silent.
Martin looked at the dead man. He knew him.
"Adrian?"
Dr Adrian Bull didn't reply: speech had left him hours ago.