The hammer rang once. A spark jumped off the anvil and did not go out. It waited. They followed.

The spark rolled across the Green to the door of Brightfield School. This time it did not stop. It rolled on, past the bins, to the small museum on the corner of the Green.

The five of them followed it in. The museum smelled of dust and polish.

Inkling was sure. She had been thinking about it all week.

"I can name it," said Inkling. "A tall person carried it off in a blanket, so it was stolen. It's stolen because nobody asked first."

"Don't pick a branch yet," said Branch.

A red squirrel sat on a glass case, swinging a forked twig like a pointer.

"What else could explain it?" asked Branch. "Stolen is one branch. There are others. Test every branch."

Inkling opened her mouth, then shut it. She had named it too soon again. She hated that.

"I think it's called a guess," said Inkling slowly. "Not a fact."

One wall of the museum was covered in old school photos. Children in rows. Teachers with big hair.

Tí did not read the labels. He looked for shapes. A round thing with a lip, hanging on a hook.

"Look, a tiny one," said Tí. He pointed at the corner of one photo. There was the club bell, small and grey, on its hook by the door.

Under the photo, a label said 1998.

A tall stork came down the room with two lanterns, one in each wing. He held one lantern up to the photo.

There was a thin dark line down the side of the bell.

"Is that a crack?" asked Beto. "How does it work? Could a bell break like a cup?"

"One light shows a little. Two show it true," said Reeve. "Where else could we check that?"

Lan ran to the front desk. On the wall was a small card about the school bell. She read it out.

"Club bell, cast in 1912. Cracked, 1998. To be mended," read Lan.

"Hold them side by side," said Reeve. He lifted his second lantern. The photo said crack. The card said crack. "Do two sources agree?"

"They do," said Danya.

"Match them, then believe them," said Reeve.

Danya counted on the card. Cast in 1912. That made the bell one hundred and fourteen years old. In the photo it had been eighty-six.

Branch hopped onto the case board they had carried over. With his twig he drew four branches.

Stolen. Fell and broke. Borrowed for a concert. Taken to be mended.

"Which one does the evidence fit?" asked Branch. "Snap off the ones that don't fit."

"It didn't fall," said Inkling. "I noticed there were no pieces under the hook. A bell that falls would leave bits."

Snap.

"There's no concert," said Lan. "I read the notice board. I know what that means. It's empty this week."

Snap.

"Nothing else is gone," said Danya. "And whoever took it wrapped it up, carefully, in a blanket."

"That doesn't snap stolen," said Branch. "But a cracked bell, wrapped with care, fits mending best."

Danya went to the board. Under SAW, in ink: the bell is cracked. The photo, 1998. The card, to be mended. He drew a little line between them. That was the third card.

Under THINK, in pencil: it was taken to be mended.

"Why pencil?" asked Tí. "The card said mended."

"The card says it should be mended," said Danya. "It doesn't say who took it, or where. Show me the source. One isn't two."

Inkling nodded. Her guess, stolen, was still on the board. But now it had a line through it, in pencil, with a question mark.

At half past five Lan looked at the museum clock, and they walked back across the Green.

Back on the Green

The spark dimmed to a warm dot and settled back on the anvil. The Green was just the Green again.

At home, Inkling's dad said it was going to rain. Inkling looked out of the window at the dark clouds. Then she checked the weather on the radio.

"Two sources agree," said Inkling, and took her coat.