Speaker 1: Hello, I'm welcomed stories all the time. Glad you are here.
Let's get into it. The afternoon sun lay gently over
the village of Rosal, casting a warm golden glow upon
its nee cottages and well kept gardens. It was the
sort of date when the world seemed content to remain
exactly as it was, with roses blooming proudly along fences
and the sound of church bells faintly drifting through the
air on the village green. A small crowd had gathered
for the annual garden party, a tradition that combined tea,
polite conversation, and the quite satisfaction of showing one's best
bloomster admiring neighbors. Miss Jane Marple, dressed in her familiar
pale summer dress and straw hat, sat on a wooden
chair near the refreshment table. Her knitting needles clicked steadily,
though her eyes were far more active than her hands.
She observed the villagers as they moved among the stalls,
their smiles polite, but their glances quick, as if each
one carried a private thought not meant for sharing. There
was missus Harper, proud of her spongecake, yet faintly resentful
that Missus Allison's had received more prize. Jan Clara Simmons
whispered tannese to her companion, her cheeks pink with more
than the warmth of the day. Colonel Bradshaw retired, and
stiff in manner, stood near the lemonade joug delivering loud
opinions that few cared to hear. All in all, it
was a scene of simple village life, outwardly tranquil, inwardly
threaded with small revelries, jealousies, and secrets. The vicar just
begun a shot speech of fence when the pleasant dare
was pierced by a choire maid rushed from behind the mocky,
her apron stained and her face piled. The chatters ceased
at once as she stumbled forward and gasped at words
that froze the gathering. Mister Denan, he's lying on the
floor in the library. He's not breathing. There was opposed
the kind of silence the falls when ordinary life is
suddenly disturbed by the unthinkable. Then voses broke out all
upon Missus Harper dropped her teat up with a crust.
The colonel demanded order, though his voice trembled. A few
hurry towards the house, or his hand back in fearful curiosity.
Miss Marple alone remained still in her chair, her knitting
now forgotten. In her laporate depression, was one of grave
attentions that the words had not surprised her, but rather
confirmed some quiet knowledge of human frilled as she rose
with a sore didnity and followed the stream of villagist
orders the house inside the Denham residents, the library stood wide,
un filled, the center of old books lindering in the air,
and that upon the carpet near the riding desk lay
mister Arthur Denham as they so naturally still, his handfuft
as her in protest against summon, Seene assaulted glass of
cordial WestEd toppled in the desk, its contents forming a
duck stain upon the polish would was beswealed. Some declared
at a sudden seizure of as mutteret of poison, and
the few hinted darkly of quarrels over heart. In recent
days a made rent in the corner the village. Doctor
bent over. The body is brought fur of Miss Marple,
quiet and un noticed, stood a little apart. Her eyes
moved from the glass, to the position of the body,
to the scattering of peppers upon the floor. She neither
book nor intruded, yet it was clear she absorbed every detail.
The garden party, once so ordinary, had become the scene
of tragedy. The calm rhythm of village life had been broken,
and though no one yet realized it, or web secrets,
motives and lies had begun to reveal itself, a web
that only Miss Marple, with her sharp eye and deep
understanding of human nature, would be able to untangle. The
following morning, the village of Rose hilst with a restless
and ease. Whether there had once been ordinary chatter about
gardens and recipes, now there was only speculation about the
sudden and dreadful death of mister Denham. Every cottage seemed alive,
with whispers cut and stretched more frequently than usual, and
the sound of horrow footsteps carried the weight of secrecy.
Amessess Ellison's tea room, the small tables were crowded earlier
than usual, villagers gathered under the pretense of morning tea,
though few cups were emptied. The air was thick with rumor.
It was poison, I tell you, declared Missus Harper, her
voice pitched a little higher than necessary. Did you not
hear about the glass? My nephew's wife saw it quiet suspicious.
Missus Ellison usually compressed her lets together before replying. The
doctor said nothing of poisonous size. Perhaps it is not
inhomin at hissage. But Missus Harper shook her head with conviction.
Arthur Denham was not the sort of soft sudden sigure
as he was hell as ever yesterday morning. And did
he not of enemies that business were the property boundary
people did not forget such quarrels. San Chloas Summons seated
at the edge of the room, then closer to her companion,
I heard it was about money, my cousins, whereas mister
Denham was pressing some unf repayment that could drive a
desperate person to end it in the voses of lapped
until the whole ruine hand with dantisin vention to one
aside that it might have seemed like idol bossab, but
to the villagers it carried the throll of proximity to scandal.
Itch postoned on to be that one should possess the
Trup's version of events, and which carefully measured him. They
repeated it Tennis Marple and ipiedly at presence at first
to notice she chose a seating at the window, earned
in once again in her hands high rested on the
fres butt out as missed not what she had the
tremor in missus Harper's insistence, the defenderness, and Missus Elson's correction,
the eupoligness of Clara's whispers. Chinnoted who reveated details would
relish and who would help them lutinly presently, Colonel bradchlestroden
is kN tapping sharply upon the floorboats this tough mass
Sissy Nunce Puffinger's chest. The police are quite capable of
determining the truth. We are not to indulge in wild rumors.
Despite his bluster, the Colonel's eyes darted about with keen interest,
betraying his own hunger for information. Mississ Harper smoked faintly
into her teacup, and the gossip continued in quieter turnes
once he was seated. By midday it was known that
the police had questioned the household staff at the Denham residence.
The cook the maid, and even the gardener had all
been asked about mister Denham's movement. That fact alone ignited
fresh buriers. Some suggested that the maid's distress had been
feigned to conceal guilt. Others claimed the gardener had been
seen owguing with mister Denham only a week before. Miss
Marple left the tea room as quietly as she had ended.
She strolled through the village lanes, her eyes noting the
way neighbors paused in conversation when she passed house shutters
open a fraction too late, how the milkman exchanged crave
looks with his customers. Fear, she knew, spread quickly in
a small place, and fear often revealed more truth than
it concealed. As she passed the churchild, she paused, gazing
at the old headstones worm By time, death in a
village was never just an event, It was a mirror.
If reflected the hidden tentions, the grudges long buried, the
jealousies politely disguised. Mister Denham's death would prove no different.
By evening, the story had grown so tangled that no
tear accounts matched. Yet, beneath the confusion, Miss Marple sense
of patent forming. It was like the beginning of a tapestry,
faint outlines, loose throats, a shape not yet clear, but
undeniably present. She resolved to continue, or quite watch, knowing
that truth revealed itself, most often in the smallest of details.
The quiet order of rose Hill had been unsettled, yet
outwardly the village tried to maintain its routine. The milk
was delivered, the post arrived, and the church bells marked
the IROs as always. But beneath that appearance of calm,
every conversation carried the same subject. Mister Arthur Denham's death
had become unseen, guessed at every table. Miss Marple, however,
did not dwell on rumor. She preferred a privation the
small things people overlooked. On the morning after the garden party,
she paid a polite call to the Denham residence. It
was a courtesy easily explained, for she often visited householes
and moments of trouble, her quiet manner and gentle wores
bringing comfort. No one questioned her presence. The maid Alice
greeted her with red rand eyes. She spoke too quickly,
as if eager to reasure, both herself and her visitor.
The master was quite well that morning, Miss Marple. He
even complimented Cook's John Tarts. None of us expected well
this dreadful end. Miss Marple listened kindly, nodding with understanding.
She asked only the gentlest of questions, never pressing, never alarming.
It was in Alice's hesitation, in her tendency to glance
towards the library door, that something subtle revealed itself. Not guilt, perhaps,
but fear. The library itself had been tidy, though not entirely.
The glass from which mister Denham ha drunk remained in
the desk, awaiting official examination. Miss Marple stood by the window,
noting how the light fell across the rubbed, the position
of the chair, the angle of the bodies described, the
paper scattered in a curious half circle. They were details
that seemed ord near, yet in her mind that formed
the beginning of a picture. Was mister Denham expecting a
visitor that day? She asked softly. Alice started slightly. I
cannot say, Miss, there was no appointment in his diary,
but I did hear voices not long before She trailed off,
passing a handkerchief to her eyes. Miss Marple did not
press her further. Instead, she allowed the silence to linger,
And in that silence the maid betrayed another clue, her
hands tissing the edge of her apron, her eyes darting
not towards the door, but towards the desk. Something about
that desk had settled her. Miss Marple observed the hesitation
before the words not always kind. It suggested more than
pastoral concern. It suggested knowledge of grievances. She remembered then
the sharp glance exchanged between mister Denham and missus Ellison
at the garden party, a glance quickly concealed. By afternoon,
she had walked the length of the village, hanknitting back
at her side, her steps unheard. She noticed Hamsy's harper,
avoided mentioning mister Denham altogether, how Connel Bradchas spoke too
loudly of his respect to the man, And how young
Clora Simmons flushed deeply when asked if she had ever
visited the Denham house. Each fragment by itself seen trivial,
but to Miss Marple they were threads of the same cloth.
She thought of the glass on the desk of Alice's
nervous glances of the vicar's careful words. They pointed not
to the certainty of accident, nor to the knee conclusion
of a natural death, but to the beginning of something darker.
That evening, as she sat by her fire with her netting,
Miss Marple considered her next step. She had not yet
formed a conclusion, but she had the beginnings of a map,
a faint outline of connections and motives. She knew the
police would sin decide upon a suspect eager for resolution.
Yet she also knew human nature too well to be
content with appearances. In rose Hill, beneath its charming surface,
secrets waited to be uncovered, and Miss Marble, patient and observant,
had already begun to see where the first cracks lay.
The morning air in rose Hill was cool and damp,
a thin mistanning low over the hedgerows and culling lazily
across the village green. For once, the jeep stillness of
dawn did not bring comfort, instead oppressed upon the cottages
like an unlockham weight. By eight o'clock, the first villages
were already whispering to one another at the post office
and bakery. The police had made progress in their inquiries.
A suspect had been taken assidh for questioning. It was
the may Alice. News of her detention traveled through the
narrow lanes faster than the baker's first tray of bread.
Some greeted it with satisfaction, for had she not been
the one to raise the alarm, and had she not
behaved so nervously since others pitied her, shaking their heads
of the cruelty of fate, for she was only a girl,
no more than twenty, and had always been considered decent
and hard working. At missus Ellison's tea room, the speculation
was already fierce. I knew it, Missess Harp, pronounced triumphantly
to her table of listeners. I said from the very
first that her tears were too dramatic. Mark my words,
A guilty conscience weeps the loudest. Missus Ellison frowned, but
said nothing. Clara Simmonds, sitting quietly nearby, bit her lip
and look down into her teacup. The colonel overhearing, struck
his cane upon the floor. Nonsense. A servant girl lacks
the cunning for such a crime. This is the work
of a calculating mind. Still, his voice faltered, softening a fraction.
Appearances are against her appearances indeed, for Alice had been
the last to serve mister Denham. She had brought the
court into the library, set it upon the desk, and
later discovered the body to the police. These facts formed
a neat circle. Motive could be invented later, perhaps a
grievance over wages, perhaps a foolish theft. Discovered evidence mattered
less when suspicion was convenient. Miss Marple listened to all
this without interruption. She sat in her usual place by
the window, her knitting resting quietly in her lap. To
anyone watching, she seemed more interested in her needles than
in the gossip around her. Yet she noted carefully the
eagerness with which Missess Harper pressed her opinion, the discomfort
of young Clara at the colonel's force certainty. That afternoon
she called upon Inspector Graves, a practical man who had
been dispatched from the county town. He was not unkind,
but preferred matters settled quickly. We must act in the
evidence at hand. Miss Marple he explained as they stood
outside the Denham residence. The mid admit she was alone
in the room before the body was discovered. The glass
bears her fingerprints. There is no sign of forced entry,
no indication of a stranger. It is straightforward. Miss Marple's
blue eyes regarded him with polite pain. And yet she
said softly, human behavior is seldom straightforward, Inspector, might I ask,
has it not struck you as peculiar that a guilty
servant would call attention to herself by summoning help immediately?
The inspector shifted a touch impatient panoic. Perhaps people do
strange things when cornered, indeed, murmured Miss Marple, And people
also do strange things when innocent. She did not argue further,
for she knew argument rarely persuaded. Instead, she returned home,
her mind occupied not with Alice's supposed guilt, but with
the details others had overlooked. The position of the papers
in the floor, the faint stain upon the edge of
the desk, the expressions of those who had crowded into
the library that first afternoon. All these were store carefully,
like stitches in her knitting, forming a pattern others could
not yet see. Meanwhile, the village moved, grew darker. Neighbors
avoided the Dunham house as though guilt were contagious. Children
were kept close indoors. Missus Harper declared it a disgrace
that such a girl had been trusted in a respectable household.
The vicar parayed publicly for mercy and guidance, though his
voice betrayed unease. Alice herself was seen only once, escorted
by constable to the station for further questioning. Her pale
face and trembling hands spoke of fear. Yet in her
eyes if flickered something more complex, bewilderment perhaps, or the
desperate hope that some one might believe her. That evening,
Miss Marple sat before her fire, her knitting needles moving
in slow rhythm. She re called of the maids she
had known in other villages, girls called in scandals they
had not created, blamed for troubles not of their making,
simply because they were powerless. Urcist accusation. Human nature, she reflected,
was fond of simple answers, and the weakest were always
the simplest answer. She poured herself a cup of tea
and considered the small details once more. Why had the
cordial been served in the library and not in the
drawing room as was usual. Why had mister Denham, a
man known for his exacting habits, allow of papers to
fall entidily at his fee? And why had the maid
glance not at the body but at the desk when
she spoke of that dreadful moment. These were not the
actions of a guilty girl. They were the faint outlines
of another truth, still hidden beneath the surface. By the
close of the state, the official word was clear the
police intended to pursue charges against Alice, pending further evidence.
The village, ever eager foreclosure, prepared to accept it. But
Miss Marple, gazing into her fire, whispered to herself words
no one else would hear. It will not do. No,
it will not do at all. The news of Alice's
arrests settled heavily upon the village, but rather than silence
in speculation, it seemed only to stir it more. The
tidy picture painted by the police that the nevis made
a poisoned how master and betrayed herself through tears was
accepted by some. With Grim's satisfaction. Yet for others, especially
those with sharper memories of quarrels and slights, the explanation
did not sit comfortably. Miss Marple spent her morning walking
along the hedgerows and cottage paths, knitting bag over her
arm to a casual as. She appeared, engaged only in
her stitches. But she paused at doorways, exchanged gentle words
with neighbors, and listened with quiet attention to the tones
in which they spoke. For in villages she knew, secrets
did not shout. They whispered, They trembled at the edges
of ordinary speech, and they revealed themselves, most often when
people believed no one was listening. At the vicarge, she
found missess Alden, the vicaro's wife, tending a basket of laundry.
The woman's hands moved briskly, but her voice betrayed at ease,
poor girl, she murmured, meaning, Alice, I cannot believe she
could be capable of such wickedness. And yet, well, there
were quarrels enough of mister Denham. He was not always easy.
Miss Marple, with her air of mild curiosity, let the
silence linger. Misss Alden, sighed, I dare say you heard
about his dispute with Colonel Bradshaw lamb boundaries. I believe
there were angry words. Oh quite heeded. The colonel has
a temper, though he means no harm. Still I wonder
if the inspector has been told. A little later, Miss
Marple called at the tea room. This she encountered un
c Lora Simmons, who looked pale and restless. With gentle persistence,
Miss Marple coaxed her into conversation. Clara hasitated, then whispered,
I ought not to speak, but I cannot keep it in.
Mister Denham had been pressing my uncle for a payment
of a loan, quite a large sum. I think Uncle
swore he would find a way, but I know he
was desperate. If mister Denham threatened exposure, well who can
say what a desperate man might do. Mins Marple did
not press her further, though she stored away every word.
By afternoon she stopped at the grocer's, where the gossip
was leves. This she heard another tale that missus Ellison,
the dignified mistress of the tea room, had once been
seen in earnest conversation with mister Denham in the churchyard.
The witness claimed she had looked both angry and distressed.
Some hinted at money again, others at more delka matters
that could not be spoken aloud in a shop. Everywhere
miss Marple walked the picture of mister Denham became clearer.
He was not merely a respectable gentleman fell by sudden illness.
He was a man who had entangled himself in dispute
both financial and personal. He had pricked the pride of
Colonel Bradshaw, placed in bearable pressure upon Clara's uncle, and
carried on some private quarrel with missus Ellison. Such a
man might command doubt, would respect, but beneath its surface
he left a trail of resentment. The news of Alice's
arrests settled heavily upon the village, but rather than silencing speculation,
it seemed only to stir it more. The tidy picture
painted by the police that a nervous maid had puzzoned
her massa and betrayed herself for tears was accepted by
some with room satisfaction. For others, specially those with sharper
memories of quarrels and slights, the explanation did not sucomfortably.
Miss Marple spent that morning walking along the hedgerss and
cottage pastinating back over her armed or cattle eye. She
appeared and aged only in her stitches, but she paused
at always exchanged gentle words with neighbors, and listened with
quiet attention to the tones in which this book for
In villages she knew, secrets did not chat. They whispered,
They trembled at the edges of ordinary speech, and they
revealed themselves, most often when people believed no one was listening.
At the vicarage, she found missus Holden, the Vicker's wife,
tenting a basket of laundry. The woman's hand moved briskly,
but her voice betrayed in these purgurel She murmured, meaning, Alice,
I cannot believe she could be capable of such wickedness.
And yet while there were quarrels enough with mister Denham,
he was not always easy. Miss Marple, with her air
of mild curiosity, let the silence linger. Missus Olden sighed,
I dare say you heard about his dispute with Colonel
bradgraw Land boundaries. I believe there were angry words. Oh,
quite heated. The colonel has a temper, though he means
no harm. Still, I wonder if the inspector has been told.
A little later, Miss Marple called at the tea room.
There she encountered young Clorisim, who looked pale and restless.
With gentle persistence, Miss Marple coaxed her into conversation. Clara hesitated,
then whispered, I ought not to speak, but I cannot
keep it in. Mister Denham had been pressing my uncle
for repayment of a loan, quite a large sum. I
think uncle swore he would find a way, but I
know he was desperate. If mister Denham threatened exposure, well
who can say what a desperate man might do. Miss
Marple did not press her further, though she stored away
every word. By afternoon she stopped at the grocer's while
the gossip was liveliest this she heard another tale that
missus Ellison, the dignified mistress of the tea room, had
once been seen in earnest conversation with mister Denham in
the churchyard. The witness claimed she had looked both angry
and distressed. Some hinted at money again, others a more
delicate matters that could not be spoken aloud in a shop.
Everywhere Miss Marple walked, the picture of mister Dinnam became clearer.
He was not merely a respectable gentleman felled by sudden illness.
He was a man who had entangled himself in disputes
both financial and personal. He had print the pride of
Colonel Bradshaw, placed in barable pressure upon Clara's uncle, and
carried on some private quarrel with Miss s Ellison. Such
a man might command outward respect, but beneath that surface
he left a trail of resentment. By the end of
the day, the village seemed to hum attension. People who
once greeted one another cheerfully now spoken guarded tones, friendships
trained under the weight of suspicion. At the post office
chat women argued openly about whether Alsi's guilt was credible,
their voss sharp with modern curiosity at the inn love
of their voices. When strangers entered for fear of repeating
to muster in her poets sitting room, Miss Marple lu'side
her need and reflected upon what she had gathered, a
human nature she thought was consistent people revealed themselves, not
in their protestations of innocence, but in the small ways
the sorts of distance themselves from Guilt's tenoparture of inter
insistent upon his respect for mister denimployer was on, although
she had not named him directly, had shown signs of
fear whenever money was mentioned, and missus Ellison's startle at
Composer suggested knowledge she would rather deep beary. The police,
satisfied with their servants, suspect looked no further than Miss
Marple knew better for behind every polite curtain of Russell
someone as the secret that connected directly to the dead
man in the lobbrary. The question was not whether mister
Denham had enemies, but rather but enemy it chosen to
act that now the village slept in his lily dogged
Bard that nothing shutters were drawn tightly, and more than
one has solved teptal Eve burning late the appearance of
farm and Vannis rose Hill was a village of secret,
snow and secrets once and Huddle could never again be
neatly put away. Miss Marple sat by a lamp and needles,
moving with steady rhythm in a mine. The pattern was
becoming clear. Alice was no more than a third useful
to the two which the matter settled quickly. But the
real tapestry was woven of pried desperation and long nursed assentments.
She knew it would not be long before one of
theres would fray and revealed the truth. Beneath the church
bells at scarcely strautinaim in the village of Rosel began
its restless stone. Though the world outside remained green and peaceful,
with spurrows darting along the hedgerows and the smell of
fresh bread drifting from the baker's oven, the hearts of
its people were far from tranquil. The death of mister
Denham had unsettled the village, but the continued attention of
Alice had sharpened the air. With her knees in the
tea room, forces buzzed like bees. Missess Harper was more
strident than ever, insisting the maid's guilt was beyond doubt,
while others less certain exchanged anxious glances. Colonel Bradshaw's beriom
in tones could be heard half the street away, proclaiming
that the police had the matter well in hand. Yet
even he carried as stiffness that betrayed his discomfered. Miss Marple, however,
passed quietly through the scene, offering polite greeting as she
made her way toward the Denham residence. She had, after
all promised the cook that she would bring over a
recipe for seed cake, and such promises must be honored.
No one thought it odd that she might call again
upon the household in mourning. The library door stood open
when she arrived, and though the air of tragedy still lingered,
the room had been put back into some order. The
papers were stacked neatly upon the desk, the glass had
been removed for examination, and the heavy cuttons were drawn
against the morning light. Yet Miss Marple's eyes, accustomed to
observe in the small shifts and human behavior, were quick
to note the tidiness often concealed more than it revealed.
As she set down her recipe cart upon the table,
her gaze lingered upon the carpet, a faint indentation in
the thick pile caught her attention. It lay just beyond
the corner of the rug, near where the chair had
been moved on the day of the garden party. The
mark was square edged, as if made by a small
box or case, something heavy enough to leave its memory
upon the floor. Yet now there was nothing there. Miss
Marble bent her movement slow and then obtrusive, as though
examining her knitting back. Her fingers brushed lightly over The
impression confirmed its shape, a box, certainly, perhaps of wood
or metal. Why had it been placed there? And more importantly,
why was it gone? At that moment, the maid Alice
was led into the room by a constable for further questioning.
Her face was pale, her hands trembling. Miss Marple greeted
her kindly, with none of the suspicion the gull had
grown accustomed to, My dear, you must be quite tired
of all this, she said gently. I only wonder did
mister Dennan keep a small case here in the library,
something about the size of a writing box. Alice's eyes widened,
I looked, parting as if she might speak, then quickly
pressed together again. She shook her head, yet her glance
betrayed her. It darted not toward Miss Marple, but toward
the desk, lingering a fraction toulon. The constable cleared his throat,
impatient with interruptions and led the girl away. But Miss
Marple had seen enough a missing box, a nervous glance,
and his silence too deliberate to be innocent. These were
not coincidences. Later, as she walked home along the lane,
Miss Marple's thoughts turned over the matter. What might such
a box have contained? Letters, perhaps personal dangerous letters, or
financial papers, the sort that could ruin reputations if reveiled.
She recalled the whispered hints of deaths, of quarrels over money,
of Miss Sess Ellison's troubled encounter in the church. Shared
a box of documents could bind these reds together, as
if it had vanished, then some one had taken it deliberately,
knowing that within it lay the truth of motive. That evening,
Miss Marple attended evensong at the church. She noticed Clara
Simmons and the peel across from her, fidgeting with her prayer.
Boke her eyes down gas She noticed Colonel Bradchall bowing
his head a little too stiffly, his lips pressed tight
in silent discomfort, And she noticed missus Ellison's absence, explained
away by a neighbor as a touch of nerves Each
observation was tucked away, quiet as stitches in her knitting,
each one part of a pattern. When the service ended,
miss Marple lingered by the Church of Gates, speaking softly
with the vicar. A sad business, he said, gravely. One
cannot help but pray for u swift conclusion. Miss Marple nodded, yes.
But swiftest is not always the same as truth, is it.
The vicar looked trouble, but he did not reply. As
she walked, hung beneath the fading light, Miss Marple considered
again the missing box. It was a small thing, easily
overlooked by those eager to close the matter, But to
her it spoke volumes. Someone had been in the library,
not merely to kill, but to remove some one had
wished not only for mister Denham's death, but for the
silence of whatever secrets he kept locked away. By the
time she reached her cottage, Miss Marple was certain of
one thing. Alice was not the key to this mystery.
She was merely the thread pull forward to distract from
the true design. The real anti lay in the vanished
boxin in the head and face of those who had
reason to seek. And she set aside her netting bag
and pulled herself a cup of tea. In the quiet
of her parlor, she spoke aloud, as if to the
empty chair across from her, The truth will come, my dear.
It always does, and it is never quite what people expect.
The following morning brought with it a brisqu wind, scattering
driyal leaves across rose Hell's quiet lanes and bratling the
shutters of cottages not yet opened for the day. Though
the ere car at the scent of wood smoke candeu
there was a restless energy that Hahrn about the village.
The death of mister Denham had ceased to feel like
a singular tragedy. It had instead become the pulse of
every conversation, every whisper behind lace curtains, every sidelong glance
exchanged at the grocer's counter. Miss Marple, having whizen early,
tended to a small garden before making her way toward
the post office. It was a happy she kept collecting
the daily paper and exchanging like greetings with mister Finch,
the postmaster, who knew the life of the village more intimately.
The most morning, Miss Marple, he said, sliding the newspaper
across the counter. The inspector has been about again, asking
after telegrams. Seems he's quite fixed on timing, as though
the very minutes might unpick the crime. Indeed, Miss Marple replied, mildly,
slipping the paper into her bag. But minutes, you know,
can be as misleading as gossip. Sometimes it is not
when something is done, but why that tells us the truth.
Mister Finch chuckled, though uneasily he was aware, as many were,
that Miss Marple's words had a way of reaching further
than idle chatter. On her walk back Miss Marple's path
cross was missus Ellison. The woman looked drawn, her eyes shadowed,
her hands cut tightly together, as if in constant prayer.
When Miss Marple inquired gently after her health, missus Ellison
forced a smile. Oh, it is only fatigue. These terrible
events way heavily on one spear. But the smile faltered
almost at once. She excused herself hastily and walked on,
leaving Miss Marble thoughtful. Missus Allison's sustress was too sharp,
too persistent, to be explained by village nerves alone. By midday,
word had reached the village that the inspector was to
hold a further inquiry to the Denham residence, the principal
village os were invited or compelled to attend. Miss Marble,
with her quiet authority and unobtrusive presence, found herself there
as well. The gathering took place in the drawing room.
Colonel Barrach arrived first, punctual as always, his mustache bristling
and his cane dapping against the floorboards. Clara Simmons came next,
pale and anxious, her fingers working nervously at her shawl.
Missus Allison entered last, accompanied by her son, who kept
his eyes firmly fixed upon the floor. The inspector began
by reviewing the established facts, but his questions soon took
a shoper edge. Mister Denham was known to keep private papers,
financial records, correspondents, Yet when the desk was examined, certain
items appeared to be missing. I asked, plainly, did any
of you remove them? There was a silence, broken only
by the faint ticking of the mantel clock. Then Colonel
Bradsher cleared his throat. I resent the implications, sir, my
dealings with mister Denham were of a purely social nature.
If the man had debts or entanglements, there were no
concern of mine. Miss Marples keen i Haes noticed how
his hand tightened on his cane to the knuckles, whitening
a denial too forceful. She thought a man accustomed to
command need not purdice so loudly, unless he feared discovery.
Clara Simmons spoke next, her voice faltering, I hardly knew
mister Denham, only through village events. If he had papers,
I never saw them. Yet her gaze flicker toward Missess Ellison,
a swift, betraying glance that suggested knowledge, and spoken missus
Ellison' sat rigid, her lips pressed into a thin line.
At last, she said, quietly, it is unkind to torment us.
So a good man is dead. Must we not re
adde reputations with suspicion? The inspector regarded her sharply, Madame,
I must follow the evidence wherever it leads. Miss Marple
said nothing, though within her her mind the threads were
weaving together. Colonel bradgho wass aggression, Chlora's fear, Missess Ellison's
concealment all pointed not to innocence, but to secrets jealously guarded.
When the gathering dispersed, Miss Marple contrived to walk beside
Chlora Simmonds. In her gentle and threatening manner, she observed,
it is such a strain, is it not? When one
carries more than one can manage. Secrets come away upon
the heart dreadfully. My dear Clara flushed, Garlet. I don't
know what you mean, but the tremor in her voice,
the way her hands clutched her shoul betrayed, and Miss
Marple only smiled, kindly, saying no more, for she knew
that silence often pride opened doors more effectively than questions.
That evening, as the lumplike glowed softly and her polor,
Miss Marple reflected on what she had seen, Lias's surfaced
like stones beinga shallow water branch, as financial deal in
Chlora's fearful silence, missus Ellison's troubled conscience. Yet the shape
of the crime was not complete. It was as though
she were knitting a pattern with missing stitches, a design
obscured until the final three was placed. She poured herself
a cup of tea, settled into her chair and whispered
softly into the quiet room. They are all hiding something,
But which of these lies is worth killing for? The
rain came without warning. By late afternoon, darc Clarks had
rolled and from the dawns pressing low and heavy over
Rose Hill. The air smelt of damp earth and smoke.
As the first dropped battered against the cottage windows. Villagers
hurried indoors, shutting out the chill, But inside each home
the tension of the past week remained. No one could
speak of anything except the murder of mister Denham. Miss
Marple settled in her small parlor, watched the rain streaking
the glass. She had just finished writing a note to
her niece when a knox sanded at the door. Opening it,
she found Clara Simmons, pale and trembling beneath the search
all Miss Marple. Clara whispered, her voice broken, me I
come in with a testation. Miss Marple guided her to
the hearth ware. The fire burned low but warm. She
finished a blanket and poured a cup of tea aloe.
The young woman turned to gather herself That lent. Clara's
sob suitsided and her stoic came halting before that. Cannot
bear it any longer, she said. Everyone suspects poor Alice,
but it is not she. I know it, and yet
I'm so afraid, so terribly afraid. Miss Marple regarded her
with quiet compassion. My diffea grows heavier when one tries
to carry it alone. You must tell me what it is.
He no, Clara's hands twisted in her lap. It is
about mister Denham. He eared papers let as they were,
not as they belonged to missus Ellison, she confided in
me once, when she feared he might use them against her.
I think I think she paid him to keep them hidden.
The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. Miss
Marple did not interrupt, only nodded gently to encourage her.
But then Clara continued. The night of the fate, I
saw miss s Allison in the library. She looked distraught.
I thought she might have been pleading with him. I
dared not tell any one. I could not bring myself
to But now with Alice arrested, it feels unbearable to
stay silent. Her confession broke into sobs once more. Miss
Marble patted her hand. You have done ready to speak.
My dear secrets such as these left to festor can
poison more lives than one. As Clara calmed, Miss Marple's
mind worked swiftly. If missus Ellison had indeed been blackmail,
then the missing box might have contained as very letters.
Such a motive was clear enough desperation, shame, the fear
of ruin, But was it strong enough to drive one
to murder? The storm raged outside. As the evening wore on,
Miss Marple sat in thoughtful silence. After Clara departed her
knitting and touched upon her lap. She reflected on me
missus Allison's pale face, her evasions, her son's quiet unease.
She thought of Colonel Bradsch's sharp denial, and of the
Inspector's certainty in Alice's guilt. Jack Claw's confession had shifted
the ground beneath her feet. The next morning brought a
gathering at the church hall, where the Inspector addressed the village.
He spoke of progress of evidence being reviewed, but Miss
Marple noticed the uneyes in his tone. For all his determination,
he two sends that the matter was not so straightforward
as the villagers dispersed Missus ellison lingered, her gloved hands
trembling as she adjusted her hat. Miss Marple approached her gently.
My dear missus Allison, she set softly. Sometimes the burdens
we carry a lighter when shared offe holds too tightly
to seecrets, They may consume more than one intends. For
a moment, Missus Allison's ayes filled with tears, her composure crocking.
But then with visible effort, she gathered herself, offering only
a faint smile before hurrying away. Yet Miss Marple had
seen enough. The strain was wroten plenty upon her face
that even where to very quickly, Missus Allison had collapsed
at him over time, by what the doctor town nervous exhaustion.
The village buzzed with speculation, but Miss Marple, listening quietly
to the chatter, knew it meant only one thinderweight of guilt,
weather of action or silence, was finally too much for
missus Ellison to bear alone in a cottage. Miss Marple
whispered to herself, the druce pess's hardest of others who
try most to conceal it, and sin concealment will no
longer be possible. To September sun retunned after the storm,
casting a deceptive colmover Rose Hill. The cottage is stood
bright beneath their climbing roses, and the village green gleamed
fresh with rain. Yet within the village's attention only sharpened.
Missus Ellison's collapse had stowed speculation to fever pitch. Some
said it was guilt, others whispered blackmail, and still others,
with the hint of cruelty, declared that her nerves had
simply failed. Miss Marple, sitting in her nee parlor with
her netting, while otherwise she understood better than most that
a human, how pressed by fear, rarely breeks without reason.
She believed missus Ellison knew more of mister Denham's death
than she had yet admitted. But to force a confession
outright would serve littlegood. No, what was required now was
patience and a trap set with the quietest of hands.
The inspector remained convinced of Alice's guilt opportunity mode of
an evidence, he declared firmly. When Miss Marple paid a
polite call at the station, the glass was in her care.
She had access to the room, and she was found nearby.
I grant you she is a timic creature. But desperation
can drive the timid to desperate acts. Miss Marple listened nodding,
but her eyes softened with mild reproach. Forgive me, inspector,
but I have often found that desperation more commonly, for
as the strong world, the timid o more apt to
suffer in silence. He frowned, unewsed to being contradicted by
an elderly spinster, yet said nothing further. Miss Marble departed
her thoughts, already turning to the quiet plans she had
begun to weave. That afternoon, she visited Colonel Bradshaw, under
the predixt of delivering a jar of her well known marmalade.
The colonel received her stiffly is maner brasque. Yet when
she gently inquired about his investments, mentioning almost as in
a side, the rumor of debts in connection with mister Denham,
he readened and stammered in a way wholly uncharacteristic of
his military poise. Miss Mapple tucked the observation away like
a drop stitch, to be picked up later. Her next
call was upon missus Ellison, the woman, pale from her collapse,
lay upon the drawing room sofa, her son attending her
with anxious devotion. Miss Mapple exspressed sympathy, offering quiet words
of comfort. Then, as though idly, she remarked, it is
remarkable how small things are so easily overlooked. A box,
for instance, left in the library corner, one wonders what
might become of it if some one wished it hidden.
Missus Allison's hand trembled, spilling a little off the tea
her son had just bored. She murmured some faint denial,
but her color drained visibly. Miss Marple made no further mention,
Content to let the silence do its work. That evening,
she set her plan in motion. She invited several of
the villagers, Colonel Bratwaugh, Clara Simmons, and young mister Ellison
among them, for tea at her cottage. The gathering appeared
no more than a kindly neighbor's attempt at comfort and
troubled times. Yet Miss Marple prepared carefully, insuring the conversation
would drift as naturally as the turning of the tide
toward mister Denham's death. She began with a knockyous remarks gardens,
the weather, and you had chosen by the vicar, until
gradually she observed the group relax. Then, with her needles
clicking softly, she said, in her mild way, it is
curious how certain things vanish at the most inconvenient moments.
I once lost a button box that contained a most
important token. I thought it gone forever, yet it turned
upon quite a surprising place. There was a pause, Chloraglance
nervously at missus Ellison, who stiffened. Colonel Bradshaw shifted in
his chair, his cane tapping restlessly against the floor. Miss
Marple continued, still mild, still seemingly harmless. In fact, she added,
I should not be surprised if mister Denham's missing box
were to appear again. Things have a way of returning,
you know, sometimes when one least expects them. The silence deepened.
Missess Ellison's breathing grew labored, as some placing a steading
hand upon her shoulder, the colonel's jaw clench, his eyes
dotting toward the doors of calculating an escape. Miss Marple
poured more tea, and troubled, she spoke of nothing further,
but she had seen what she needed. The fear in
Missess Ellison's eyes, the anger in Bratcha's clenched fist, the
strain upon young Ellison's face. The trap had been set
not with accusation, but with suggestion. In time, one of
them would stumble into it. When her guests departed, Miss
Marple stood by the window, watching their figures retreat into
the twilight. Her knitting lamb finished on her lap, but
her thoughts were sharp and clear. They are all untangled.
She moment softly, But only one hand poured the poson,
and it will not remain hidden much longer. The next morning,
dawn crisp and bright, the sword of morning that seemed
to mark the uneas gripping rosal. The bells from the
church shined cheerfully, but the villagers gathered with uneasy anticipation
at the Denam residence, Summoned by the Inspector for what
he promised would be a conclusive discussion, most came reluctantly, curiosity,
battling with dread. Colonel Bradge arrived first, his kne striking
sharply against the floorboards, his jaw set as though he
faced a battle. Line. Missus Ellison entered with her son,
her complexion pale, eye shadowed. Clara Simmons slipped and quietly,
her hands twisting a handkerchief until it nearly tore alice.
The accused maid sat trembling beside a constable, her gaze
darting nervously from one village to the next, and then
quite unobtrusively, Miss Marple took her seat by the fire.
She seemed only a kindly old lady, who knitting back
by her side, her expression mild. Yet as the inspector
began to speak, it was she to whom the villager's
eyes turned. Almost without realizing it, the inspector cleared his throat.
We have gathered sufficient evidence to proceed. The case against
el Simonds is compelling. Forgive me, inspector. Miss Marple interrupted softly.
Her tone was courteous, but a coward await that silence
the room. Compelling, perhaps, but mistaken. The inspector bristled, but
Miss Marple continued before he could object. You see, she said,
folding her hands neatly in her lap. The matter of
mister Denham's death was never about opportunity. Many had that,
Nor was it truly about means the poison could have
been placed by any who approached the library. No, it
was about motive and the silence surrounding a very particular box.
At this Missus Ellison's face Blanche and Colonel bradshaw shifted
uncomfortably in his chair. Miss Marple's eyes, kind but unyielding,
rested on them both. That box contained letters, private letters
belonging to Missus Ellison. Mister Denham, the ugly respectable has
taken to tepping them, tending to use them for his
own advantage of farm, a blackmail inter If Missus Allison,
distressed and deaths were have visited him on the night
of the face, she pleaded, but she did not call. No,
her heart is far too gentle, our pnscience too heavy
to have varted at such a day of Missus Ellison's.
To his sprindle a son place in the arm, particularly
a one, and to Miss Marple, press on have I
steadied the Colonel toy? Of course, his investments polychads had
placed him at them. As he of mister Denham's knowledge,
he feared exposure field ruin. His temper was sharp as
man and breast, but his courage for Alla's blusters, not
the courage of stealthy would have struck up and Inanda
not potted in poisonteronal brush of fluster Scarlett, but did
not speak. And so Miss Marble continued to become at
last to the one who had but the means and
the resolve, the one who moved silently, terefully insurance suspision
would fall upon another, Mister Ellison, in knew of her
mother's letters, who feared what their exposure would mean, not
onely for her reputation, but for the understanding. It was
who ended the library with the night, who poured the
poison into mister Denham's glass. And when it was done
he he removed the box, thinking to bear the matter forever.
The room out to gasps exclamation quires of DISPOUTI if
missus Ellison cluster Son's arm, her face stricken, He stared
at Miss Marple that spotted gathered raining from mischieks, that
diabsurt the inspector Bart, though his false ware of Miss
Marple's reply was comprecise. The Rugge told me the indentation
left by the missing box showed it had been moved
after the chair was disturbed, not before that meant it
was taken after the murder. Only one he knew what
lay was in would think to remove it. And when
I hinted the other night that the box might reappear,
it was not missus Ellison or the colonel who betrayed themselves.
It was the sun. His hand upon his mother's shoulder
tightened at the mention. Fear, not compassion, gripped him. Young
Allison's composure broke. His voice trembled as he cried, I
had no choice. He would have ruined her, He would
have destroyed everything, our name, all life. I only meant
to frighten him, but he laughed, He mocked. His words
dissolved into sobs, his shoulder shaking. Missess Ellison collapsed against
her chair, of her face hidden in her hands. The
inspector gave a sharp order, and the Constable stepped forward,
placing a firm hand upon the young man's arm. The
villagers sat in stun silence, unable to reconcile the quiet
youth with a dreadful crime. Miss Marple, still seated by
the fire, drew her knitting from her bag. Her needles
clicked softly as she murmured, murder, Ye see is never
so simple as it appears. It is rarely the hardened criminal,
more often the desperate soul who believes wrongly that one
act can preserve all they hold dear. But the truth,
however painful, always finds its way. Through the days that
followed the shocking revelation at the dNaM residence passed under
a cloud that no sonechan could dispel. Rose Hill, once
a village of gentle rhythms and kindly gossip, now bore
the heavy weight of scandal. Neighbors who had once greeted
each other with cheerful nods, now exchanged hushed words, glances
full of pity or suspicion. The calm surface of village
life had been cracked, and though the truth had been
laid bare, the echoes of the crime lingered. Misss Ellison
remained secluded in her home, attended faithfully by her servants
and her doctor, the weight of her son's where crimes
seemed to have crushed her spirit. She was seen no
more in the church peu she had once frequented, nor
in the lines where she used to pause and offer
a kindly word. Her curtains remained drawn, and though the
villagers spoke sympathetically. They did so with an air of caution.
It was, after all, a terrible thing for a respectable
lady to be so entangled in disgrace. Colonel Bradshaw walked
about with even greater stiffness than before, his cane striking
the ground with sharp authority. Yet Miss Marple noticed that
the Colonel spoke less loudly now, his booming confidence subdued.
It was as though the shadow of suspicion that had
once touched him had left behind a permanent mark. He
bowed to Miss Marple politely when the cross, but he
did not linger for conversation. Far Or Simmons, by contrast,
seemed oddly lightened for confession to Miss Marble, difficult though
it had been, had freed her from the crushing weight
of silence. She moved with the new stadness, though her
eyes still betrayed sorrow when she spoke of Alice. For Alice,
though released from suspicion, could not yet shake the village.
Whisper's innocence proved does not always restore innocence belief. She
had returned to her position, but her smile was thin,
her laughter hastened, as though she feared it might be thought,
and see me. As for the inspector, he carried himself
with the determined briskness of a man who would not
acknowledge defeat. Yet when he encountered Miss Marble in the
churchyard one afternoon, he doffed his hat with more humility
than before. You were right, madam, he admitted, stiffly. I
was misled by what seemed the most obvious facts. Miss
Marble inclined her head, her expression kindly. It is a
common error, Inspector, One must always remember people light knitting
form patterns. If a stitch appears too plain, it may
be precisely where the flour lies. The Inspector gave a
right smile, though his pride would allow no more, and
strode away. Life in rose Hill attempted to resume its course.
The bells rang for Sunday service, the children played upon
the green, and the baker's loaves filled the air with
the comforting scent. Yet beneath it all there was an unease,
a sense that innocence, once lost, can never quite be reclaimed.
Miss Marple, in her cottage, returned to her knitting. The
days grew shorter, the evening's cooler, but her mind remained
sharp and reflective. She thought often of young Ellison, whose
desperate act had brought such a rum. She pitied him,
for his crime had been born not of cruelty, but
of fear, the fear of losing what he held most dear.
And yet pity could not excuse murderer. She sipped her tea,
her needles clicking softly. It is a curious thing, she
murmured to herself, how one believes a crime will end
a fear, but instead it breeds only greater ones. People
imagine they can silence the truth, Yet the truth is
rather like ivy. It creeps back, however often one cuts
it down. Outside the village returned to its gentle murmurings,
but Rose Hall would not soon forget the lesson of
mister Denham's death. And though miss mob asked for no thanks,
those with wisdom enough to see knew it was her
quiet eyes, her gentle words, and her understanding of human
weakness that had brought the truth to light. The September
evenings grewgle and quiet. The last roses in the gardens
of Rosehill as odd and krypton. The village had begun
outwardly at least to settle once more into its castomary rhythm.
The bakest Old placed his loaves upon the counter. At dawn,
the vick still walked the lanes with his gentle nod
of greeting, and the children still played in the fading
light upon the green. Yet to those with attentive ve
as the tone of the village had changed. The laughter
was softer, the gossip more restrained, as though everyone carried
within them the memory of how swiftly shadows might fall.
Miss Marple sat in her parlor, her knittings spread neatly
across her lap. The fire burned low, casting a warm
glow upon the familiar room. She had received that morning
a letter from her knees, full of cheerful chatter about
London life. Miss Marple smiled as she read, but when
she laid it aside, her thoughts turned once more to
the events that had so shaken how little village. She
thought of missus Allison, whose health remained fragile, and whose dignity,
though defended by the sympathy of her neighbors, could never
be quite restored. She thought of Alice, the maid, still
working in quiet humility, yet carrying the scar of suspicion
unjustly placed upon her. She thought of Colonel Bradshaw, whose
bluster no longer rang with the same authority. And she
thought with sorrow of young mister Ellison, whose fear had
driven him to enact that destroyed everything he had sought
to protect. Miss Marple sighed softly her needles, pausing. Oh,
it is always the same, she murmured. One imagines murder
to be the work of villain's, cold blooded, cunning creatures
set apart from ordinary folk. Yet time and again it
proves otherwise. It is not monsters, but men and women,
much like yourselves, Those who loved too strongly, fear too greatly,
or hey too bitterly, who commit the darkest deeds. She
poured herself a cup of tea, the steam curling gently
in the lamplight. She reflected on how swiftly the village
had turned suspicion upon Alice, how ready they had been
to believe the worst of one who was powerless to
defend herself. It was a reminder. Miss Marple thought of
how dangerous it is to judge upon appearances, and how
often the truth lies into quiet details ovoloked by most
The mental clock struck the ire outside the church, bell's
answer with the calm, familiar chime. Miss Marble set down
her cup and resumed her knitting, the needles clicking softly, steadily,
as if marking the passage of time itself. Her eyes
trinkled faintly, for though the tragedy of mister Denham's death
had wains heavily upon rose Hill, she knew that life,
in its stubborn fashion, would go on. Gardens would bloom again,
face would be held upon the green, and the gossip
of villagers would turn to new subjects. But always beneath
the gentle surface there would remain secrets, quiet hidden waiting,
and Miss Marple, with her sharp mind concealed behind mild
manners and knitting needles, would beat her to see them.
Thus ends the tale of mister Denham's murder in rose Hill,
a reminder that evil rarely comes from strangers, but more
often from the fears and frailties of those closest to us.
Miss Marple has once again shown that truth, though hidden,
will always rise to the surface. But this will not
be her last case. For wherever human natured, world's mystery
and folly are never far behind, and that is the end.
Thank you for listening, and I will see you in
the next one.