The Silenced Bell Ta n i s Ka l Ka n The Silenced Bell A di deAcon MySTery Tanis Kalkan Ovi ebooks are available in Ovi/Ovi eBookshelves pages and they are for free. If somebody tries to sell you an Ovi book please contact us immediately. For details, contact: ovimagazine@yahoo.com No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the writer or the above publisher of this book An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C The Silenced Bell The Silenced Bell Tanis Kalkan A DI Deacon Mystery Tanis Kalkan An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C The Silenced Bell T he clang of the Harrow by Cathedral bell had always been the sound of time itself, a steady, comforting rhythm that echoed across the town, binding its people together in both celebration and sorrow. In the still of the early morning, its chime announced the start of another day, a quiet yet con- stant reminder that life, however uncertain, moved forward. But now, there was nothing. A heavy silence hung over the town; thick and oppressive, as though the earth had simply paused, holding its breath. The sound of life seemed muffled, and with it, an eerie tension began to creep through the cobbled streets. Detective Inspector Matthew Deacon stood at the foot of the cathedral steps, the image of composure in his dark, tailored suit. His broad shoulders stiffened as he surveyed the chaotic scene before him. Police officers shouting orders, reporters clambering for in- Tanis Kalkan terviews, and curious onlookers whispering amongst themselves. A faint smell of smoke lingered in the air, though no fire had been reported. It was the kind of smell that left an impression but refused to fully ex- plain itself. There was something off about the whole thing, something Deacon couldn’t quite place yet. He walked past a line of officers, their faces tight with the strain of the unknown, and entered the ca- thedral. His polished shoes clicked sharply against the stone floor, the only sound that seemed to break through the muffled chaos outside. The nave was empty but for a few officers, who stood by intense silence. They avoided his gaze as he passed, their own uncertainty hanging in the air. The cathedral’s grand interior normally filled with an air of reverence, seemed to hold an unusual weight now. The sunlight streamed in through the stained- glass windows, casting long, colourful shadows that danced across the cold stone floor. Deacon’s eyes narrowed as they fell on the belfry. The enormous bell, usually perched high above, its dark silhouette cutting against the skyline, was... gone. In its place, a yawning void seemed to swallow the space. Father Michaels stood by the altar, pacing with frantic energy, his hands trembling as they clasped The Silenced Bell and unclasped in front of him. His face was pale, drawn as though he hadn’t slept in days, though Dea- con knew this was likely the first sign of true distress he had seen from the old priest. “Inspector,” Father Michaels said, his voice crack- ing as he turned to meet Deacon’s gaze. “I... I don’t know what to say. It was just... gone. One moment it was there, the next... gone.” He swallowed hard, as though the very act of speaking made the situation more real. Deacon stood still for a moment, absorbing the cha- os, the priest’s agitation. It wasn’t the loss of a bell that troubled the town, it was the weight of the bell’s ab- sence. A centuries-old symbol, linked to the rhythms of life in Harrowby, now shattered into silence. The town’s pulse had stopped, and Deacon could almost hear it: the collective breath of the town, waiting for something to break the stillness. “Tell me, Father,” Deacon said, his voice smooth, cutting through the priest’s frantic pacing. “Where were you when the bell went missing?” Father Michaels stopped, his face flushed. He looked down at his feet as if the very question itself was an affront. “I... I was at my afternoon prayers, Tanis Kalkan but I didn’t hear anything unusual. It wasn’t until I came out and saw the empty belfry that I understood something was terribly wrong.” He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, his eyes darting nervously to the officers and back to Deacon. Deacon’s gaze narrowed as he studied the priest. The words didn’t quite add up. “You didn’t hear any- thing? Not a sound? No movement, no creak of the tower?” he pressed. Father Michaels blinked, his eyes wild, as though trying to grasp the reality of his own words. “I—no. I swear, Inspector. I didn’t hear a thing. It’s... it’s impos- sible. It’s never happened before. Not in all the years I’ve been here.” Deacon took a slow, deliberate breath. He’d been around long enough to know when someone was telling the truth and when they were hiding some- thing. Father Michaels was hiding something. The way his eyes flickered, the way his words tripped over themselves—it was a small tell, but it was there. “Father,” Deacon said, his tone soft, but with an underlying edge. “I’m going to need you to be more specific. No one’s going to accuse you of anything just yet, but I’ll ask again. Did anyone else have access to the belfry today?” The Silenced Bell Father Michaels’ lips pressed into a thin line. He opened his mouth as though to speak, then hesitated. The silence stretched between them, thick and tense, like the space before a storm. “I... don’t know,” he muttered finally, eyes cast down. “There was someone who had been asking about the bell. But he ...he was only here a week ago, just passing through. I didn’t think... I didn’t think it mattered.” Deacon’s brow furrowed. “Who? What did he want?” “His name was Thomas... Kilmer,” Father Michaels said, his voice barely a whisper now. “A strange man. Had a lot of questions about the bell, about its histo- ry. I thought he was just a tourist, but I... I don’t know anymore.” Deacon’s mind clicked into overdrive. The name Kilmer rang a bell, if you’ll pardon the pun. He couldn’t place it exactly, but he had a feeling. A gut feeling that this was more than a simple case of theft. “Stay here, Father,” Deacon said firmly, his eyes never leaving the priest. “We’ll find out what hap- pened to your bell. And when we do, we’ll find out who’s behind this.” Tanis Kalkan Deacon turned on his heel and strode toward the back of the church, his thoughts racing. Kilmer. The bell. The priest’s nervous mannerisms. Something wasn’t adding up. As he stepped into the crisp, cool air outside, the scene before him seemed all the more chaotic, peo- ple milling about in confusion, a few whispers al- ready circulating, and an undercurrent of unease beginning to settle into the town’s bones. But there was something else. A presence, barely perceptible, hovering at the edge of his awareness. Deacon turned quickly, but no one was there. He let out a sigh, the tension in his shoulders not easing. There was more to this than just a missing bell. And he was going to find out exactly what it was. The Silenced Bell I. The air around Harrowby had an unfamiliar weight that morning, one that pressed against the town like a blanket too thick to lift. Detective Inspector Matthew Deacon stood at the edge of the cathedral’s belfry, hands clasped behind his back, his sharp eyes scan- ning the town below. The streets, usually bustling with the hum of morning life, felt quiet. The kind of quiet that spoke volumes. It wasn’t just the bell that was missing. There was something else, a feeling that something had been taken, and no one knew exactly what it was yet. The cathedral bell, a heavy, weather-worn sym- bol of Harrowby’s past, had tolled its last chime just the evening before. Now, it was gone. The belfry sat empty, an eerie silence falling where the bell’s song once echoed across the town. Deacon frowned as he leaned on the cool stone edge, his gaze drifting from Tanis Kalkan the tower to the streets below. The loss of the bell was more than a simple theft. It was a disruption, a wound in the town’s rhythm. People weren’t sure how to re- act to this silence and that, in itself, was disturbing. Behind him, a faint rustle of footsteps echoed in the stone corridor leading to the belfry’s entrance. Sergeant Claire Harding, Deacon’s sharp-witted and ever-reliable colleague, appeared with a file in hand. Her heels clicked briskly on the stone floor as she ap- proached, a wry smile tugging at the corners of her mouth despite the tension in the air. “Got something for you, Sir,” she said, opening the folder with a flick of her fingers. “Turns out, the bell’s disappearance may be tied to the case of the Widow Kilmer murder.” Deacon turned slowly, raising an eyebrow. The mention of the Kilmer case was enough to stir his in- terest. The murder had been one of Harrowby’s most notorious unsolved crimes, one that had faded into the realm of whispered tales, mostly forgotten by the town’s newer generations. Deacon had heard the sto- ries, of course. Everyone in Harrowby had. But the murder had been left in the past, collecting dust in the files of the unsolved. The Silenced Bell “The bell’s disappearance is... connected to a mur- der? How so?” Deacon’s voice was low, measured, his expression unreadable. Claire opened the file fully, revealing yellowed pa- pers and photographs that had seen better days. “It’s a bit of a stretch, but there are some odd similarities. Back in the late ‘60s, just before the bell was last re- cast, old Mrs. Kilmer was found dead under myste- rious circumstances strangled, they think. No signs of a break-in, no signs of struggle. But there was talk, Sir. Talk of a curse.” Deacon’s lips twitched with amusement, though the tension still clung to him. “A curse? In Harrow- by? Really?” Claire shrugged, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the page. “It’s a small town, sir. People like to gossip, especially when a bell’s involved. The rumours say that every time the bell tolled, a life was taken. The last toll, just before the recast... Mrs. Kilmer’s death.” “And the bell’s gone missing now,” Deacon mused, turning his attention back to the empty belfry, where shadows played against the stone walls. “Tell me more about this curse.” Tanis Kalkan Claire leaned against the doorframe, flipping through the file until she found a grainy photograph of a woman. “Here. This is Mrs. Kilmer. She lived alone in a cottage near the edge of town, just below the hill. Everyone loved her... or so they said. But when her body was found, they couldn’t make sense of it. No one had heard anything, and her son, Thom- as Kilmer, vanished right after. The town assumed he ran off. But no one ever saw him again.” Deacon’s fingers tightened into a fist behind his back as he processed the information. “And you think the bell’s disappearance is connected to this?” Claire met his gaze. “Some think it’s all a coinci- dence. Some think the bell’s toll was just a marker. But the town’s superstitions run deep, and you know how that goes. The bell goes missing, and the whis- pers start up again. As for Thomas Kilmer, there are rumours he might still be around. Hiding.” Deacon turned to face her fully now, his face a mask of controlled interest. “Or someone’s hiding him.” Claire paused, looking thoughtful. “Exactly.” The wind howled briefly outside, rattling the win- dows of the belfry, and Deacon’s mind clicked into The Silenced Bell gear. The pieces were starting to fall into place, but not quite fast enough. A missing bell, an unsolved murder, a vanished son, all buried under layers of time and silence. Deacon didn’t believe in curses, not for a moment. But the connections here were too neat, too calculated. Someone wanted the town to re- member. And Deacon didn’t like the sound of that. “Alright,” he said, nodding toward the file in Claire’s hand. “What else do we have?” Claire looked down at the file, her finger running across the contents. “Well, there’s a man who fits the description of Thomas Kilmer, Sir. He was seen in the area last month, asking questions about the bell. He came by the church, spoke to Father Michaels. The priest says he didn’t think much of it at the time just a man interested in the town’s history. But now... with the bell gone...” Deacon’s eyes darkened. “I don’t believe in coinci- dences, Claire. And I don’t believe in people who ask questions without reason.” Claire closed the file and held it out to him. “What now, Sir?” Deacon didn’t hesitate. “We find Thomas Kilmer. Tanis Kalkan We find out what he knows about the bell—and why it’s gone. And we dig up every last shred of informa- tion about his mother’s murder. If there’s a connec- tion, I want it clear as day.” He paused, turning toward the door. “Let’s start by paying a visit to Father Michaels. If Kilmer’s been talking to him, it’s time we did, too.” As Deacon and Claire made their way down the narrow stairs of the belfry and out into the crisp morning air, the sense of something dark and unset- tling loomed heavier with each step. The town was restless, holding its breath as if the bell’s disappear- ance had triggered something deep within its bones. The streets of Harrowby, with their winding al- leys and old stone buildings, had always been a quiet place. But the silence was different now. It was the silence before a storm, the kind of stillness that made every footstep echo a little too loudly. The storm was coming, and Deacon could feel it in his gut. The only question now was how far the storm would reach and who would be caught in its path. The Silenced Bell II. The persistent drizzle that had clung to Harrowby for the past few days seemed to seep into the very bones of the town. Deacon and Claire stood under the narrow awning of Mrs. Wren’s cottage, staring at the old woman’s door like two actors waiting for a cue. It was a curious scene—two detectives standing in the cold, trying to decipher cryptic words from a woman who, by all accounts, was more enigmatic than helpful. But the trail had gone cold, and Mrs. Wren was the only lead they had. “Let’s just get this over with,” Claire muttered, her breath fogging up in the chilly air. She pulled her coat tighter around her, casting a glance over her shoul- der at the deserted street. “I’m starting to think Mrs. Wren’s a bit more involved in this than she’s letting on.” Tanis Kalkan Deacon only nodded, his hands tucked into his pockets as he studied the small cottage. It wasn’t much to look at timid ivy clung to the crumbling stone walls, and the windows were framed with threadbare curtains that had seen better decades. But Deacon had learned long ago to trust his instincts, and they told him that Mrs. Wren wasn’t telling them everything. He knocked once, sharp and deliberate, and the door opened slowly, the creak of old hinges mingling with the soft rain that pattered on the roof. Mrs. Wren, in her late seventies but with the sharpness of someone half her age, stood before them, her gray eyes sizing them up in that way old people have— like they could see through the very marrow of your bones. “Detective,” she said quietly, her voice low but firm. “I know what you’re looking for. But I can’t help you.” Deacon tilted his head slightly, eyeing her for any sign of a lie. “And why’s that, Mrs. Wren?” She leaned against the doorframe, her gnarled hand resting on the wood as if she might just close it at any moment. “Because you won’t believe me. The truth’s a bit too... strange. People in this town have The Silenced Bell their secrets, Inspector. The bell, the curse... it’s all tied together.” Claire shifted uncomfortably beside Deacon, but he motioned for her to stay quiet. He had learned that sometimes, when people talked, silence was the best tool. “What do you mean by ‘tied together’?” Deacon asked, his voice gentle, coaxing. Mrs. Wren’s eyes darted over her shoulder, scan- ning the empty street before locking onto Deacon with a mixture of caution and suspicion. “I know where Thomas is,” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the rain. “And I know what he did... but you’ll have to search for it yourself. I’m not get- ting involved.” Deacon’s pulse quickened, though his face re- mained impassive. Mrs. Wren’s words were more than just an invitation—they were a riddle wrapped in a threat, and Deacon wasn’t one to shy away from either. But he knew better than to push too hard. “And why not?” he asked, keeping his tone casual but laced with authority. “You’ve already said you know. Why the secrecy?” Tanis Kalkan She hesitated, her gaze flicking down the street again, as if trying to gauge whether anyone might be listening. “Because some things are better left buried. Thomas Kilmer isn’t the man you think he is. And what he did ...well, you might not be able to undo it.” Her voice grew distant, the weight of years and regret creeping into her tone. “You might think you can solve this, Inspector, but I’m telling you now... some things are meant to stay forgotten.” Claire shifted her weight, the tension in the air thickening. “We’re not here to judge, Mrs. Wren. We just need the truth.” The old woman’s lips tightened, but for a brief mo- ment, Deacon thought he saw something, something not quite guilt, but regret? Pity, perhaps? She sighed heavily and, after what seemed like a small eternity, she spoke again. “If you’re determined to find him... you’ll need to look where nobody else will. Follow the trail the bell left behind.” Deacon raised an eyebrow. “The bell?” Mrs. Wren nodded solemnly, her eyes narrowing as if the very mention of the bell had pulled her into