After some time, I was able to convince him that it was most likely a normal bureaucratic delay, and that a polite letter requesting the item’s return would likely do the trick. What follows is the letter Jackaby dictated, with just a little of my own editorial revision:

To the attention of the New Fiddleham Police Department: You’ve got my middle-C, and I would like it back. To convey the importance of its swift return, I will share with you its unique history.

There was once an old church. It sat in the center of town, as was often the case in those days, and it was in every way the heart of the little community. Neighbors came to meet for celebrations, babies were baptized, lovers were married, and funeral processions commenced at that humble church. The heartbeat of the little town rang with the sound of church bells.

In the bell tower hung not one, but three masterfully crafted bells. On very special occasions, the vicar would ring all three together, and their notes would complement one another in a rich chord, but more often they rang alone, each bell serving a distinct purpose.

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.