Speaker 1: Hello, I'm welcomed stories all the time. Glad you are here.
Let's get into it. On a quiet autumn evening in Willowbrook,
the bookshop's bow rang for the very last time. No
one knew it then, but the customer who stepped inside
was already walking towards his own death, and before the
week was over, Herculeporot would be summoned to uncover the
truth that lay beneath lays of civility, secrets and lies.
The little bookshop of Willowbrook had stood in the corner
of High Street for nearly forty years. Its narrow windows
displayed volumes of poetry, travelocks, and a few detective tales
with garish covers. Further proprietor offered. Whitcombe preferred the most
serious works. He was a man of fifty eight, thin
and fussy, with spectacles always perched at the end of
his nose and an air of perpetual disapproval. Villagers often
droke that Whitcomb mut more like an accountant than a
man of letters. That evening, the glow of oil lams
softened the chill in the air. The bookshop smelled faintly
of paper dust and binding blue. The comforting a room
of knowledge preserved. Whitcomb was about to close. When the
door creaked open, the bell above the lintel gave its
customary ring. A figure stepped inside. Later, each person in
Wilibrook could remember that ring differently. Some claimed it was
oddly shrill, others said it seemed to echo too long,
as though the bell itself new tragedy had entered. With
the customer Wick Coombs straight and irritated. We were just
about to close, sir. The man gave no answer at once.
He was cloked against the damp evening, a brimmed hat
shadowing his face. When he finally spoke, his voice was
low and smooth. Smooth. Then I shall not keep you long.
I only require a certain book. The proprietor resigned, gesture
toward the shelves, if you tell me the title arm,
But the customer's eyes had already fixed on a narrow
case behind the counter. What passed between the two men
in that moment would become the subject of endless speculation
in the village. Ten minutes later, when mis cess Lydia
Farnam walked past the shop on her way from choir practice,
she noticed the lamp still burning the door standing ajar strange,
she thought, since Witcomb was always particular about punctuality. The
next morning, Alfred Whitcombe was found dead slump behind me counter.
A single book lay open beside him, its pages torn
and crumpled, as though clutched in his final moments. The
last customer had vanished. News of the murder spread quickly
through Willowbrook. By breakfast time, the postmistress had whispered it
to the baker, who mentioned it to the miltman, who
told half the households on his morning round. One knew.
The entire village humped with speculation. At the vicarage, Missus
Lorimer had declared it must have been a robbery gum wrong.
At the grocer's, Mister Keating insisted it was the work
of a stranger, some vagrant passing through. At the tea room,
young Alice Godfrey whispered that she had once seen mister
would come arguing heatedly with a certain village gentleman, and
that perhaps it was a quarrel turned deadly. Every one
had a theory, no one had the truth. By the
time Inspector Graves arrived from Marlacum, he was already convinced
the matter would prove simple. These quiet villages breed quarrels.
He told his sergeant. Some wood he owed with, come money,
or disliked his manner, shall have the fellow in no time.
Yet not everyone shared his confidence. Among those who paused
in their gardens that day to listen to the gossip,
one man in Butterkiller stood out. He was small, impeccably
dressed in a well brushed suit, and carried himself with
fastidious neatness. His Mistat was perfectly groomed, his shoes without
a speck of dust. Though he was a visita to
the village, many already knew his name, for he had
a reputation that traveled widely. Monsieur Ur Cuilporott arrived in
Wilbrook only the week before, intending nothing more strenuous than
a fortnight of rest at the home of his old friend,
Colonel Ab. Not but fate, as so often, head of
their plans. That afternoon, Poorat and Colonel Abb have not
walked together past the bookshop, now closed and guarded. The colonel,
a hardy fellow with a booming voice, shook his head
gravely by business. Porart, poor witkembe never harmed a soul
who on earth would want him dead? Poart's sharp eyes
studded the shop door, at the window panes, the faint
mark of boots on the step. He tilted his head
with the faintest smile at the corners of his mouth.
My dear colonel, he said, softly, there is no such
thing as murder was at reason. The question is not
he would wish Monsieur wickhamb dead, but who believed it
necessary that you should die? That is very different, is
it not. The colonel look startled. Dash it all, poor Art,
you talk as th you mean to investigate Warat tapped
his temple lightly with a finger. Already, mon army, the
little gray cells are awake. A man dies in a bookshop,
he does clutching a torn page. Such things do not
happen with that design, and herkil pot does not ignore design.
As the two men moved on, villagers watched from behind
lace curtains and whispered among themselves. The bookshop spell had
rung for the last time, but its echo lingered in
every corner of Wilobrook. Soon, each household, each polite conversation
over tea, each half forgotten quarrel, and every secret motive
would fall under the gaze of Hercule Porat. The stage
was set. The suspects were many, and the truth, though hidden,
was waiting for the man who prided himself fon seeing
what the those overlooked. Inspector Cres prided himself fon his efficiency.
By the time the coroner had carried poor Alfred Whitcomb's
body away, Graves had already assembled a short list of suspects.
In Willowbrook. One did not need to look far. Everyone
knew everyone else. In grievances, however, small were never forgotten.
The inspector stowed in the bookshep with his noboc opened
his broad frame, filling the narrow aisle. Thus much drifted
in the sunlight. On the counter lay the open book
Whitcomb had clutched, a slend volume of protry torn on
its final page. Symbolic, perhaps, muttered Graves, though symbolism was
not his strength. He preferred facts, and facts to his
mind pointed to one of the villagers, Missus Lyddy Farnham.
The first to be questioned was Missus Farnham, the choir mistress,
who had passed the shop that night. She was a tall,
elegant widow of fifty, always dressed in muta graze. I
assure you, inspector, the door was open, yes, but I
thought nothing of it. Mister Wickham was peculiar in his ways.
I assumed he had stepped out. Her voice was calm,
but part listening quietly from a corner, noticed the faint
tremor in her gloved hands. Missus Farnham was known for
her friendship with Witcomb. Some even whispered that she was
more than a friend. Such whispers often carried seeds of truth.
Mister hald Keating, the grocer. Mister Keating came next, a
ruddy faced man of forty, always smelling faintly of onions.
He was blunt in his speech. I never liked Witcombe,
high and mighty. He was always correcting my speech, telling
me how to pronounce things. Still, I wouldn't kill the fellow,
not over books. Yet, poor Oart observed how the man's
eyes darted toward the torn page in the counter. He
looked away quickly, as though reminded of something best forgotten.
Alice Godfrey Allies, a young woman of Menteine, worked part
time in the tea room, and often visited the shop
for novels. She sat nervously before the inspector, twisting her handkerchief.
He saw a stranger in the village two days ago,
a tall man in a dark coat, perhaps ahats he
did it, mister Wickhambe was very cross with him. Her
words tumbled out in haste. Poott inclined his head, noting
that the girl avoided speaking of her own dealings with
the bookseller, shyness perhaps, or fear of discovery. Reverend Prichard.
The Reverend was a stout man with a booming voice,
well liked but occasionally resented for his sermons on morality.
Witcomb was a difficult man, yes, but sould to be pitted.
He owed money, inspector, to whom I cannot say, But
debts have a way of leading men into dark waters.
Quartz eybrows lifted at that debt's secrets, hidden accounts of motive,
often stronger than quarrels of the heart. Misceliner Whitcomb last
came Misceliner Whitcomb, the dead man's sister, who lived with
him above the shop. A thin, pale woman with anxious eyes.
She spoke in a whisper My brother was particular. He
had enemies, though he would never admit it. The bookshop
was his life. If some one killed him, it was
because of what he knew, or perhaps what he would
not give. She glanced meaningfully at the torn book, then
pressed a handkerchief to her lips. Quart caught the look
and filed it away among his growing observations. Inspector Graves
closed his notebook with satisfaction. There you are, Quara, one
of them did it? My mun is on keyting. The
man has a temper, and temper leads to violence. Quarrott,
who had remained silent thus far, spoke at last. His
voice was calm, almost indulgent, perhaps, Inspector, but do not forget.
Violence is rarely born only of temper. It comes from calculation, necessity,
or fear. Say mister Keating has a temper Bonn, But
does he have the subtlety to hear a single page
from a book, to leave it in the hand of
the dying man, as though it were a message that
I think requires a different sort of mind. Graves frowned.
You think it staged? Poart adjusted his cuffs. I think,
mon Army, that everything is staged, even the ordinary quarrels
of a village. Question is not what we see, but
what we are meant to see. That evening, Wilolbrook was
alive with gossip. At the tea room. Missus Bambury declared
it was clearly the sister tired of living in her
brother's shadow. At the pub men's wart was the grosso
caught in a quarrel. Young Alice Godfrey whispered to friends
that perhaps would come had hidden a treasure among his books,
and some one had killed for it. Only part sat
quietly in Colonel Arbudot's parlor, sipping his tisint Is mustache,
stitching thoughtfully. There are five suspects, he said at last,
and each has the appearance of guilt. But appearances, mon army,
are the greatest enemies of truth. One must search and
stead for the detail that does not fit the words
spoken too quickly, the jest that betrays more than it conceals.
Somewhere among these good villages lies a murderer, and Hercule
Parle will find them. By the following morning, Inspector Graves
had convinced himself of the murderer's identity. To him, the
matter was simple. Alfret Wykeham had been quarrelsome proud and fussy.
Of all the villagers, only Harold Keating, the grocer, had
both the temper and the opportunity praise. Gathered the villages
in the tape room of the Rose and Crown public House,
announcing his intention with a satisfaction that seemed premature. The
air was thick with tobacco smoke, the clink of glasses,
and the low murmur of gossip ladies and gentlemen. The
inspector began. The evidence points squarely in one direction. Mister
Harold Keating was seen leaving the high Street late on
the night of the murder. He has admitted to quarreling
with mister Whitcomb in the past, and here Graves tapped
his notebook. He cannot provide a clear alibi for the
ire in question. A collective gasp purple through the room.
Missus Bambury clutched her hol tighter, while Alice Goffrey covered
her mouth with her hand. Mister Keating himself flushed crimson rubbish.
He bellowed, I was a home sleeping soundly. My wife
will tell you as much. Braves narrowed his eyes. Your
wife is way visiting her mother in mollocum convenient. You
were seen by no one, and you have a known
dislike of the victim. Keating's fists clenched dislike, Yes, murder,
no ear twisting this inspector. The villagers murmured, lauder speculation,
darting from one to another. Light sparrow startled from a hedge.
Already Keating's name was being whispered in every corner, his
reputation crumbling before his eyes. Poorott, who had been seated
quietly in the corner with Colonel arbuthnot, cleared his throat delicately. Perhaps, Inspector,
you will permit a small observation. Graves frowned, but gestured impatiently.
Go on. Monsieur Boorot fart stood, smoothing his immaculate suit,
His mistust gleaned in the light of the lamps. His
voice was soft, yet cared clearly through the crowded room.
You say, Monsieur Keating as no alba. That is true.
You say he disliked Monsieur Whitcomb, That also is true.
But I asked myself a simple question. If Sir Keating
is a man of temper of impulse, then would he
kill in so neat a fashion, would he arrange the
torn page in the hand of the victim, a gesture
towards theatrical and deliberate. No, satchaks are not the work
of temper. They other work of calculation. The room fell silent,
Several villagers shifted uncomfortably. Miscellino would come lowered her eyes.
Missus Farne touched her gloves nervously. Waratt continued. There is
also the matter of the shop bell. It rang once
at the hour of Whitcombe's death, only once. A man
of temper, leaving in haste after a quarrel, would cause
it to rain again as he departed. Yet no one
heard it. No one. Does this not suggest that the
murderer remained within until long after the crime. A specta
grave scowled. You're playing with words, poorart, ideal in facts.
Then permit me another fact, Inspector Porat said smoothly. On
Monsieur Keating's boots. There is the faintest trace of flyers
befits a groser. But there is no dust from books,
no particles of paper, no wing stains upon his hands.
He is not a man who entered a sharp, un
rifled among volumes. He he is a man who lifted grits,
not books. A murmur of assent rippled among the villagers.
The logic was undeniable. Brave snapped his no book shut well, Poarart,
you cast out. But if not keating, then who? Powart
gave his most enigmatic smile, Ah, inspector. That is the question,
not who could have killed Monsieur Whitcombe, but who needed
him to be silenced? And until we answered that, we
shall continue to chase shadows. The villagers dispersed slowly, whispers
following in their wake. Some were unconvinced, others relieved, but
all were unsettled. The certain Degraves had promised was gone
that night. Colonel Arbes not found part seated before the fire,
hand steepled beneath his chin. He gave Graves quite a
dropping to day, the colonel said, with a chuckle. Powart
did not smile. His eyes were fixed on the flames.
Mon Army, do you not find a curius, A torn
page clutched by a dying man, a shop left open
with its lamp still burning, a bell at rhyme once
not twice, Each is a detail of thread. Pull them
together and one finds a pattern, But what paden that
I do not yet know. The colonel poured himself a whiskey,
so you don't believe Keating did it? Puart shook his
head slowly. No, our murderers clever, far cleverer than Inspector
Gray's imagines. He counts on the simplicity of others. But
Hercule Pott does not think simply. Hercule Port observes, and
as the fire crackled in the village slept uneasily, poor
arts little gray cells began their quite work, piecing together
the puzzle of the bookshop's final customer. The morning sun
lay gently across Willoughbroquye Street, gilding the roofs in soft gold.
Yet beneath the calm of the village, tension simmered like
a kettle left too long upon the stove. Villagers lingered
at doorsteps, voices lowered but insistent. Every report walked he
heard the same question carried from Sharp to shop, Who
killed Alfred Whitcombe? At the bakery, misss Hawkins whispered to
her neighbor that Harold Keating had been spared only because
of Quart's interference. At a post office, mister Barnes declared
with authority that Elina Whitcombe stood to gain the entire bookshop,
and perhaps she had grown tired of her uncle's stubborn rule.
Even at the vicarage. Mild Reverend Charles mused them of
Whitcomb's age might have harbored secrets. Never confessed to the village,
Quarat listened politely, his head incline, his mustache tretching with
the faintest amusement. Gossip was the breath of small villages.
But within the idle chatter, he knew one might stumble
upon the truth disguised his fancy inspector. Graves meanwhile, grew
more irritable with each passing ire. He strode into the
bookshop that morning, poor out at his sight, determined to
scare at the place once more. Thus Mortes drifted through
the still air, the scent of old paper mingling with
candle wax from the lamp's left burning. Graves grunted a
blasted mess. But I see nothing we did not see
before Quart's siyes narrowed. He bent almost delicately to the
counter where Alfred Wickhombe had kept his ledger, one corner
of the thick foliume bore fince maudge of ink, fresh
enough to glisten faintly in the morning light. Quaratt touched
it with a gloved finger and examined the faint trace. Curious,
he murmured, Graves leaned over ink. So what Powart shook
his head. Not merely ink, Inspector, This madges upon the
page for the fifteenth of October. Yet Monsieur Whitcomb was
killed upon the sixteenth, who then opened the ledger after
his death? And why leave so careless? A mark Grey's frown.
But Parwatt was already drifting toward the shells, his eyes
sweeping along spines of faded leather and cloth. He stopped
suddenly at the poetry section, where a single volume had
been shoved back upside dan He drew it up carefully.
Tennyson Poorat remarked, but see the edges are torn, as
though a page had been hastily removed. A coincidence, perhaps,
But I do not believe in coincidence. Graves muttered, could
have been done years ago? Part smiled faintly, or yesterday evening, Inspector.
Later that afternoon, Poatt took tea with Missess Godfrey in
her small pallor overlooking the village. Green Alice Godfrey, without
plain dresses and gentle manners, was known for observing much
while speaking little. Parat regarded her as a valuable witness.
Mademoiselle Poart began smoothly on the night of the murder.
He passed along the high street. Yes, Monsieur Poaratt, she said,
pouring to he with a steady hand. I was returning
from choir practice. I saw the light in the shop.
It seemed unusual, but mister Wickhamoffen kept odd ires. Did
you hear the bell? Perhaps the chime? As a customer entered,
She paused once, Yes, a sharp sound. I thought little
of it at the time. Poor Ought inclined his head,
and after that no other sound, only the wind against
the windows. Pooratt's eyes glimmered once, not twice. The murderer
had entered, but had not departed in haste. He had lingered,
confident or compelled by evening. Powatt returned to the inward
colonel Or, but not awaited him with impatience. Well, the
colonel asked, what have you discovered? Quart lowered himself into
a chair, his hand steeple mo Nammy the Clewes begin
to speak. They whisper of someone who wished us to
believe the crime was simple. They left the torn pages
of signature, Yet in their haste they made mistakes. A
smodge of ink where nun should be, a book displaced
in a mile or two, careless for Monsieur Whitcomb's fasted
his knee, And above all, a silence, the silence of
the bell that should have rung twice. The colonel frowned.
It sounds like Riddle's parts mule gently, yes, my friend.
But in riddles there is logic, and in logic there
is truth. Already I begin to see the outline of
a mine, subtle, deliberate and proud. Soon we shall know
to whom it belongs. And as the lambs flickered in
the quiet, inn poart a loud himself a moment of satisfaction.
The villages might chatter endlessly, inspect a Graves might pursue
his simple suspects, But the Little Gray's elves were at work,
and they were never wrong. The village of Willowbrook was
not accustomed to tragedy. A broken fence, a stray dog,
a quarrel about roses in the churchyard. Such things were
the usual fodder of gossip, but a murder that was
something else Entirely. Within days of Alfred Whitcombe's death, suspicion
had become the village's favorite pastime. At the green Grocer's,
Missus Dawkins was heard to declare it must have been
a leaner. No one else stood to gain from the bookshop,
mark my words. The girl had ambition. Meanwhile, at the Inn,
mister Bonn swore at Howard Keating had argued with Wickham
only a week before about money out for books never delivered.
He is a hot headed fellow, Bonds insisted, thumping his
pint upon the table. The sword who'd strike out without thinking.
Even the vicar's wife hinted docy that Colonel Arbuthnot, with
his grand talk and polished manners, might not be as
respectable as he appeared. After all, no one truly knew
how he had come by his pension, or why he
had chosen to retire in so quiet a village. The
gossip's world multiplying like ivey upon an old stone wall.
Inspector Graves, for his part, had seized upon the simplest explanation.
By midweek he announced with some triumph that Harold's Keating
was his men hot temper. Short on Fund's history of
quarrels with the deceased, Graves enumerated, as though the lists
alone were proof, the case as clear as daylight, bore
up raise the delicate eyebrow, clear as the London fog. Perhaps, inspector,
you have the quarrel, Yes, but where is the proof
of opportunity of means a presence in the bookshop that night?
Graves bristled, He was seen leaving the high street not
half an eye before the time of death Seene, by
whom Quaath asked gently Alice Godfrey, Graves replied with certainty,
Poarart inclined his head. Ah, and did Mademoiselle Goarfrey state
that she saw him enter the bookshop? Did she observe
quarrel or violence? Graves hesitated, No, she saw him upon
the street. Quarts mustashed whitch just so a man upon
the street is not a man with blood upon his hands.
The one does not prove the other. Nevertheless, Harald Keating
found himself the object of hostile stairs at the bakery.
He was served last, his change given with a cold hand.
Children whispered and pointed as he passed At the palp,
conversations fell silent. The moment he entered, he bore it
with bitterness, snapping at those who avoided him, muttering that
he would leave Willobrack altogether. Powaratt watched him one afternoon
from the inns window, noting the angry set of his
shoulders the quickness of his stride. Colonel Arbuthnot, seated across
from him, gave a grunt. Looks guilty enough, Eh, A
man doesn't bristle like that unless he is hiding something.
Quart smiled faintly. No, mon army, a man accused, un
jo They may bristle just the same anger and gilt.
They wear a similar coat. One must look at the
stitching to tell them. Apart. That evening, Poorat requested a
quiet word with Elena Whitcombe. She received him in the
crampsitting room above the bookshop, her eyes ring with shadows
of fatigue. Monsieur Parott, she said, the inspector believes Harold
killed my uncle. Do you agree? Poarart regarded her with kindness. Mademoiselle,
I believe that Inspector Graves is too eager. Harold Keating
may have quarreled, yes, but your uncle, it was precise, mediculous.
The clues we have a smudge of ink, a torn page,
a silence where sound should be. Do not speak of
hot temper. They speak of calculation of design. Lina's lips potted.
Then you think some one else, Poorott inclined his head, indeed,
someone who wished us to look only at the obvious,
wile the truth hides in shadow. Following morning brought fresh
fuel to the fire. Words spread the Keating had would
drawn a large sum of money from his account only
two days before the murder to the villages. It was
proof enough payment, perhaps for silence, for a motive for theft. Inspector,
Graves look smug as he really denuced Parart. Now, then
let's see you argue against that Powart merely adjusted his cuffs.
It proves only that Monsieur Keating required money, a crime, perhaps,
but not this crime. Do not confuse coincidence with evidence, Inspector.
It is a most dangerous habit. By the week's end,
Willowbrook had all but convicted Harold Keating in its drawing
rooms and taverns. Ep part walking the high street with
his measured steps remained serenely unshaken. He knew that in
every true mystery, the first suspect was almost neverthelast. The
little gray cells had begun to hum, and already they
whispered that the real murderer walked among them, confident and troubled,
and perhaps even pleased by how easily the village had
been misled. On Sunday morning, the bells of Saint Mary's
told softly over Willowbrook, calling the faithful service. Yet the
village prayers were distracted, whispered not toward Heaven, but toward
the earthly scandal that had overtaken them. This is turned
towards Harold' keating with thinny veiled hostility as he stood
stiff backed in the last pew, refusing to bow his head. Poiart,
seated quietly near the front, allowed his keen eyes to wonder.
He noted how Misses Duckckins lean close to whisper behind
her himnal how Colonel aw but Nott's gaze flickered toward
Alena would come with something like calculation, And how Alice
Godfrey fidgeted, her gloves clutched tightly in her lap. These
small movements so ordinary to most would like signals to paw,
each revealing more than words. After the service, Powart lingered
near the churchyard gate. He waited until Elena passed, offering
her a polite bow. May I trouble you, mademoiselle. There
is a small matter, a detail that has fixed itself
in my mind, he said, On the night of your
uncle's death. The lost customer left shortly before closing. Yes,
Elina replied softly. I was in the back room sorting accounts.
I heard the bell jingle as they entered, and again
when they left. Part's mustache twitched just so, and ye
did not see who it was. No, By the time
he I came out, the shop was empty. My uncle
had locked the till. Everything seemed in order. Quaratt inclined
his head. Yet the belt all the bell is precise. Yes,
one cannot mistake it sound. Lena gave a faint smid.
This queaks dreadfully. I have meant to oil it. Tresbayen
Poat murmured. Then it tells us something important. For if
the customer departed, why did the register remain short of
one shilling? Where was the ledger left up into a
blank page, as if someone had closed in haste. That afternoon,
Powart requested to examine the bookshop himself. Lena agreed, and
locking the door with trembling hands. The little shop smelled
of ink, dust and leather bindings. It shells neatly ordered,
despite the air of gloom. Quart's gaze travel not to
the books, but to the objects around them, the counter
polish smooth with use of use, the small brass ball
above the door, the glass case where rare additions were kept.
He bent low, inspecting the bell with an intensity that
made a Lino blink. What is it? She asked. Quart
tat the bracket gently. Observe, Mademoiselle, scratch ear quite new,
and the screws one is looser than the other. Someone
adjusted the bell. Treasorisement adjusted it. Thelena frowned, we so
that it might not ring. When the door was opened.
Her eyes widened. But then that means Poorat's straightened eyes gleaming.
It means, Mademoiselle, that the murderer could have entered after
your uncle believed the shop closed. He could approach and
see unheard as silent as a shadow. Later, over tea
at the inn, Powart reallyed his findings to inspect the Graves,
who look skeptical. The loose grew proves nothing. Anyone might
have knocked it. Pooratt's smile was patient art, but combined
it with the missing shilling, the open ledger, and the
fact that no one saw the final customer depart, you
have not a quarrel in the street, inspector, but a
carefully arranged deception. Graves scowled, You think someone stays. Powart
inclined his head just so, the appearance of an ordinary
customer leaving the shop was contrived in truth. The fatal
visitor remained within the bell, silent when it should have spoken,
tells us as much. That evening Poorat sat alone in
his room, fingers steeple. He reviewed the faces of the
suspects as though they were pieces upon a chessboard. Elina Wiccombe,
anxious but genuine, are all keating, angry, yet perhaps more
more wrong than Guildy. Colonel Arbeth, not polished but secretive.
Alice garv For nervous, her testimony convenient yet uncertain. And
Missus Dawkins, ever eager with gossip, whose sharp eyes missed little.
He whispered softly to himself. In French, one detail it
always leads to another. From the belt of the shilling,
from the shilling to the hand that took it, and
that hand it belongs to one who knew the shop
well enough to tampa without fear of notice. Pooratt allowed
himself a thin smile. Already the pattern was forming, delicate
but undeneable. The murderer had been clever, but not clever
enough to escape the little Gray's ells. The following morning
brooke gray and wet, the rain lashing across Willowbrook's cobbled
streets in a steady drizzle. The village appeared smaller beneath
the weather, as though huddling into itself. But inside the
snug confines of the Inines drawing room, Hercule Paw prepared
to continue his inquiries with meticulous calm. Inspector Graves had
arranged for several of the key witnesses to be interviewed
in succession. The inspector believed in blunt questioning, but Poorat's
manner was softer, coaxing, never pressing too hard, yet allowing
silence to work its subtle power. It was often in
the Paul's part new that the truth betrayed itself. First
came Alice Godfrey. She entered nervously, clutching a damp handkerchief,
her eyes flickering from Poarat to the inspector. Miss Godfrey,
poor up again, kindly, You were one of the last
to see Monsieur wickhomb alive. Yes, you purchased a copy
of Milton on the evening of his death. Yes, Alice stammered.
He seemed well as he always did, quiet, polite, I
paid and left at once. Parat leaned forward slightly, and
new paid in coin, not in note. Alice blinked, yes,
and coin was his exact change. A hesitation, I I
believe so, perhaps not. He gave me a shilling back.
Farart's mustache twitched. Aht or Schillin curious in sc passed
that the accounts were short, precisely by that amount. Did
you mention this earlier? Alice swallowed No, I thought it unimportant. Unimportant.
Inspector Grays barked, good, heavens, woman, you might have cleared
up half our puzzle. Alice flinched at his tone. Waratt, however,
raised a calming hand. His voice remained gentle, Do not
distress yourself mademoiselle. It is often the small matter as
one forgets. Yet sometimes it is also the small matters
that matter most. When she was dismissed, Poort watched her
go with a thoughtful expression. He had noted not only
her words, but the way she twisted her handkerchief until
the fabric nearly tore. Fear, yes, but fear of what next?
Colonel arb Not strode in upright, as they are still
on parade, his mustache bristling with indignation. Colonel Poat said, smoothly,
you have been most helpful already. Yet I must ask
again about your business with Monsieur Whitcombe. Some of the
villager suggest your conversations were not always amicable. The colonel
gave a dismissive snort. Anthon's we disagreed. That is all.
He was a stubborn fellow, clinging to his books in
his pride. I wish to purchase the premises, make better
use of the land, he refused, his loss. Poart's eyes narrowed.
And yet a man who blocks one's plans may become
a formidable obstacle. And s he pass a mode of
one might say, are but not bristled. I don't like
your insinuations, sir. My dealings were entirely above board. I
can prove my whereabouts that evening, can you, Quarat asked softly.
For a fleeting moment, the colonel's gaze shifted, betraying discomfort.
Then he squared his shoulders. I dined with my housekeeper.
She will confirm it. Quarrat inclined his head politely, But
of course he made no further challenge, though the small
hesitation had been nerded and carefully filed away in the
detective's mind. Later, Elina whitkemb herself appeared. Her face was
pale from sleeplessness, her hands clasped tightly before her. Mademoiselle
quart said, ed it is painful, I know, but we
must speak of your uncle's affairs. Did he keep enemies? Enemies?
Elenor whispered. Uncle was proud, yes, but not cruel. Some
found him difficult. He dismissed Harold Keaton last year over
an unpaid debt, and there were quarrels with Colonel arbuthnot
but enemies. I would not call them that, Quarat studdied her.
And you, mademoiselle, did you agree with his decisions? Is refusals.
Her eyes widened. Of course he was my guardian. I
owed him everything, everything, Quart repeated softly. Or perhaps Madame
is out. You longed for something more, independence, perhaps breedom,
Houltte pressed together. You think I could harm him? Poua
bowed slightly. I think only that one must examine all
possibilities forgive me. Lena turned away, her composure trembling. There
was something beneath her grief, something restrained yet dangerous. Pouart
could sense it, like a feint vibration through the floorboards.
Finally came missus Dawkins. She entered briskly, her hat feathers
quivering with the effort of holding in her eagerness. Well,
mister Pott, she said, I dare say you will wish
to hear what I know. Every one talks to me.
You see, they cannot help it. Pouarat inclined his head gravely.
And what do they say, Madam, that Harold Keating was
seen near the shop that night? Though he swears otherwise.
The Colonel au but Nut's finances are not so sound, as
he pretends that Elina may have more claim to her
own Coleswolden, she admits, and as far as Godfrey. Well,
though a whispers, she owes debts herself small, though they
may be quaras smiled faintly. Ah gossip, madam. It is
a spice. It flavors the dish, but one must not
mistake it for the dish itself. Dawkins purse her lips.
I only tell you what others say. Indeed, Powart said softly,
and in telling me, you reveal also what you wish
me to hear. Perhays flickered with the annoyance, but Part
had already turned away. The interview concluded in his mind
that evening Part reviewed his notes. Each suspect had revealed
more than intended. Alice had lied by omission, concealing the
matter of the shilling ar, but Nott had faltered in
his alibi. Thelinus grief carried an uncurrent of divines. Mus
says Stalkins spread information freely, perhaps too freely, with peppers
behind it. Part folded his notebook with care. Lies had
sourfaced at last, each rising to the top like cream.
Yet it was not the lies themselves that might at most.
It was the contradictions within them, small fractures where truth
would soon break through. The rain continued against the windows
of the Inn, but within Poros's mind a patten gleaned,
ever brighter than Murdersville was thin, and already the little
gray cells were tugging at its edges. The storm did
not obey for two days. The skies over Wilibreg remains
wororn and heavy, releasing the burden in a steady drizzle
that seeped into every corner of the village. The weather
seemed to mirror the mood of its inhabitants, for gossip
and suspicion pressed upon each house like the damp bear itself.
That the a inn Parot remained as immaculate as ever.
Not a crease disturbed his suit, not a drop that
marked his polished shoes. He moved with quiet composure, but
his as gleaned with sharp purpose. The truth he knew
often revealed itself, not in grand gestures, but in the
cracks of human nature, and cracks were beginning to show.
That afternoon, he requested the presence of Harold Keating. The
young man endered reluctantly, his jaw set, his hands shoved
deep into his pockets. His ear was that of defiance,
yet his eyes betrayed fatigue, mister Keating, Quarat said, motioning,
hinmt sit. We have spoken already, but at fear some
matters remain un clear. You were dismissal by miss her Whitcombe.
It must have been, how shall we say? When into
your pride? Harold laughed bitterly pride. He threw me up
without a penny hever in me? Do you know what
it is to be turned away like a dog, to
have every door in the village close because of one
man's word? Quat tilted his head, and yet you insisted
you bore him no mind, alice, malice. I hated him,
Harald burst out, Yes, I hated him. Are you satisfied?
The words hewn in the air, raw and dangerous? Inspector Graves,
seated nearby, leaned forward eagerly. You admit it? Then you
had every reason to kill him. Harold's face flushed. No.
I may have hated him, but I didn't kill him.
You must believe that I was nowhere near the shop
that night Quarret's gay shopened. Yet you were seen, monsieur
missus Dawkins. She claims she witnessed you loughtering near the lane.
She lies Harold's fist struck the arm of the chair.
That woman for ives on poison. She twests everything to
suit her tongue. Quarrett allowed silence to grow between them.
The young man shifted uneasily at the storm within him,
not yet spent. Finally, Harald spoke again, lor now as
vois and steady. I went near the shop, yes, but
not to harm him. I only wanted to beg him
to forgive me, to take me back. I stood outside for
half an hour, working at the courage. But when I
finally stepped inside, he was already gone. The shop was empty.
Do you understand he was alive when I arrived, alive?
Inspect A gravescoffed a likely tale. Pro Poorart raised a finger. None,
mon Army, do not dismiss so quickly. Truth of the
emotions speaks louder than the denial, Monsieur. Keating does not
lie about his hatred, nor about his desperation. These things
I can feel. Harald leaned forward, his eyes suddenly wet.
I had no one else. My debts are crushing me
Witcomb for fusal was the end of everything, but murder, No, Monsieur,
I am guilty of weakness, of bitterness, but not of blood.
Poart studded him with quiet intensity. Here was not the
voice of a cold killer, but of a young man
crushed by circumstance. He had confessed hatred, freely, revealed his desperation,
admitted his presence. Lies had turned to confession, but not
of the ultimate crime. When Harold was dismissed, Grace muttered,
he is still my man. Motive, opportunity, the lot of it.
Poort shook his head gently. He look always for the
large motives, my friend, But in the small contradictions lies
the truth. Missus dear Keating's confession as cleared one mist
even as it raises another. That evening, Parr sat by
the fire Indian's parlor, turning over the new revelations in
his mind. Harald had confessed hatred, yet his anger seemed genuine.
His presence near the shop could not be ignored, but
his words carried the ring of a man desperate, not murderous.
Across the ruin, Lina would come. Sat with the letter
in her lap, unread. Her eyes were fixed upon the flames,
her face pale with thought. Paratt watched her a moment,
noting the rigidity of her posture, the faint trembling of
her hand. She too carried a burden and spoken soon
part murmured, sofite himself. The heart was speak where the
tongue has lied. It is only a matter of waiting
for the precise moment and applying the pressure most delicate.
The fire crackle, the storm raged, and beneath the quiet
civility of Willowbrook, the truth pressed harder and harder, waiting
for a release. The rain had at last ceased, The
skies above Willoughbre cleared a pale morning light, though the
village itself seemed reluctant to shake off the gloom that
had settled upon it. Windows were shuttered, doors closed, and
the few villages abroad moved quickly, whispering as they passed
the The order of author Whitcomb had become more than
an event. It had become a shadow hanging over every hearth.
Hercule Poora, however, was serene. He sat at the small
writing desk in his room at the Inn. Every pen,
blaughter and sheet of paper aligned with military precision. Order
suited him, and it was order he saw now, the
order hidden within the apparent chaos of lies and suspicion.
He dipped his pen and made a needless of names.
Billina Whitcombe, Harald Keating, Beatris Dawkins's stock to laugh at
Margaret Clay. Five names, five souls, each tied to Author
Whitcomb by the threads of grievance, of ambition, of secrecy.
Five who could have killed, yet only one had done so.
Woarat tapped the pen thoughtfully. The time had come to
bring them together. The tea murderer had hidden beneath fragments
of truth and vales of half lies, But in the
crucible of confrontation mass slipped. It was the eternal law
of human nature that afternoon messages were delivered discreetly. Each
suspect received to pull out summons to the Whitcomb bookshop itself,
the place where the crime had begun. Poor Out decided
would also be the place where it ended. The book
shop when they gathered there at dusk, felt almost spectral.
The air was heavy with dust, and the faint scent
of old paper. Handles flickered on the counter where once
Author Whitcomb had presided, his ledger and spectacles, neatly arranged
as if awaiting his return. Billino Whitcomb sat rigid in
a high back chair, her black dress severe, her eyes watchful.
Harold's keating leaned against a shelf, breastless and pale, his
defiance tempered by a knees. Beatrice Dawkins hovered near the counter,
her shot gaze flicking to each face, hungrie for revelation.
Doctor Latham stood with arms folded, grave and silent, while
Margaret Clay clutched her hand back tightly, her knuckles white
with tension. Inspector Graves stood apart, impatient yet grudgingly curious.
He had protested Parrot's scheme, yet consented when he saw
the Belgians, some weavering calm, Poor Art, maculate in his
dark suit, took his place at the counter. He bowed slightly,
Miss Dames Messiers, I thank you for coming. You wonder
perhaps why insists you meet here where there still holds
the memory of death. But it is necessary. The truth
you see resides not in the words alone, but in
the in the emotion stirred by place and presence. And
to night I shall reveal to you who among us
took the life of Arthur Whitcomb. A murmur uple through
the group. Harold straight and sharply. Beats drew in her breath.
Elina's hand trembled against her lap. Quarart raised a finger.
But before the truth is spoken, I shall ask only
a few small questions. They are simple, yet perhaps not
so simple. Turned first to be at your Dawkins, Madame.
You claimed you saw Harold keating near the shop the
knight of the murder. You were most certain. And yet
how is it I wonder that you knew the precise ire?
Beatrice faltered. The clock struck nine as I passed the square. Ah,
but no clock strikes in a square at such an are,
Quart said softly. There is only the bell of Saint Mark's,
and it struck half past eight, not nine. A small slip, Madame,
but a revealing one. Theatrice clored deeply, her lips pressed tight.
Quart turned to Margaret Clay. And you, mademoiselle, you said
you left your lodging at ten o'clock precisely to call
upon Missess Dawkins. But Missess Dawkins herself swore you did
not arrive in till half past eleven. A screpancy. Most curious, perhaps,
he wondered. Margaret's face blanched. She clutched her hand back tighter.
Quaratt's eyes gleamed. He moved gently, now circling the group
with measured steps. Consider, if you please, the poison used,
did you, Hollis were, yes, but in small doses common
to a country doctor. And yet, Doctor Lathamp, you assure
me no such tincture could have gone missing from your stores.
Perhaps it is true, but it is also true that
Cleverhan could obtain it elsewhere a clever, desperate hand. Doctor
Lathan's frown deepened, but he said nothing. Quaratz stopped, suddenly,
turning to Lena would come. His voice softened. Madam, you
sat with your husband that evening until eight o'clock, you said,
He retired to his shop, and you remained at home.
Yet the maid did not see you until l after nine.
Where were you in that hour of silence? Question struck
like a stone into still water. Billina's face tightened, her
fingers gripping the arm of the chair until the knuckles whitened.
She opened her mouth, then closed it again, her throat
workings soundlessly. Quarat spread his hands. Ye, see, messamis the
alibis they are not so firm as they appeared. Lies
and contradictions weave about us like cobwebs. But there is
only one among you who could weave them with such care,
and that is a person who feared most. Not the
loss of money, not the disgrace of failure, but the
exposure of a secret long hidden. That secret, it is
the key to murder. He paused. The silence was electric.
Each face betrayed tension, fear or fury. The sharp had sprung,
and soon the truth would stand naked. The bookshops seemed
to hold its breath. A single candle guttered on the counter,
casting tall, wavering shadows across the line shelves they assembled.
Suspects sat tense, every eye fixed upon the small, dapper
figure of her Kilbarot. He inclined his head graciously. We
have reached mess amis the moment of truth. You are
weary of suspicion, the fear you wished to know who
it is that killed Arthur Wickcomb, who poisoned him so subtly,
so cruelly, As he sat among his beloved books tonight
you shall know, folded his hands over his lapels and
spoke in their towne measured and precise. First, let us
consider motive Howld Keating a young man, ambitious, eager, perhaps embittered.
He had quarreled with Monsieur Wicckham over a promised loan.
Yet what does ambition desire to rise? To seize opportunity?
But does it murder in so clumsy a manner? Now?
A young man's rage is hot not cold. Poison, my friends,
is the weapon of patience, of calculation, of secrecy. Harold flushed,
but said nothing, wa turned Theatrice Stawkins, she who sees everything,
who delights in whisper and rumor. She might envy, resent,
even hate that she is too careless. Even in her
attempt to accuse Monsieur Keating, she betrayed herself with the
air of the clock. Lies, yes, but not murder. Beatrice
stiffened Herlett's putting and protest, then pressed out in humiliation.
What moved delicately onward? Doctor Latham, the physician with access
to digit holies, the very poison used a first glance?
Who more likely? Yet what do we find? No missing supply,
no opportunity in God? His character too, is one of integrity,
though perhaps stern it is not he who killed. The
doctor exhaled slowly relief mingling with suspicion at what would
come next. Quarrot's gaze rested on Margaret clay Ah mademoiselle,
the companion with the desperate need. He wandered the streets
late at night, your story filled with holes. You feared discovery,
do you not? But it was not murder you feared.
It was shame. He sought escape from your debts, from
your secrets. You hid the truth, yes, but you did
not kill. Margaret lowered her eye's tears glistening, And then
Powatt turned at last, his eyes bright, his mustache pursling
with certainty, to Alina Whitcombe, Madame, the faithful wife, the
grieving widow. All believed your sore sincere, and yet it
was you who had most to lose him most. Again
the shop, It was failing your husband. He would not
sell you, Madam. Wished freedom from the burden, from the
tyranny of his obstinacy. You wished control, But most of
all you wished to preserve your reputation. For Authour had
learned of your secret. The deck concealed, the inheritance wasted,
the quiet dealings with the solicitor in Mollicum. He threatened
to expose you, and so you silence him. Elina drew
herself up, her face pale as marble. That is absurd.
I loved my husband. Poirot raised a finger. No, madam,
you tolerated him, but love that was gone long ago.
The proof eyes in a missing eyre, the iowa. When
you sleep from your house to the shop, carrying with
you the poisoned tea, you alone had the opportunity without witness.
You alone, you his habits well enough to disguise the
deed as a natural seizure. And when you returned home,
he sat composed, awaiting the moment when news would come
that the old man had died. Among his books. But
there was one flaw. His voice sharpened the ledger. Arthur
always wrote the day's accounts in his ledger before closing.
On the night of his death, the final entry was
made not in his hand, but in yours. A small
difference invisible to most but not to her killparat the
flourish of the w the shape of the tea. It
betrayed you. The silence broke with a gasp from Margaret,
to stifles cry from Beatrice. Harald muttered a curse. Leiner swayed,
her composure cracking. At last, Powart's force grew softer, almost sorrowful. Madame,
you were clever, but cleverness cannot outwit the truth. He
kills your husband with poison, and in so doing you
condemn yourself. Elina's hands trembled. For a moment, it seemed
she would deny again, but the strength bled from her face.
She sank back into the chair, her lips parting in
a whisper. He would have ruined me, He left me
no choice. Inspector Grave stepped forward, his jaw set grimly.
Missus Wickham, I must place you under arrest. Billina closed
her eyes, as if the words were mercy rather than
a punishment. Later, when the others had gone and the
shops stood empty save for poorot and inspected graves, the
little detective stratened his calfs of quiet satisfaction. You see, monsieur,
it is always so. The world believes in chance, in
coincidence and chaos, but in truth. The pattern is there
waiting for the eye that sees the husband poisoned, the
lager signed, the iron accounted for all small things. Yet
together this sing in harmony. It is order inspector all
was Ardor Graves looked at him with reluctant admiration. I'll
never understand how you do it, poor wwats my old
a twinkle of pride in his eye. It is simple,
my friend. One must use the little gray cells and
perhaps listen closely to human heart. He took up his hat,
and Kane glanced once more about the bookshop, and with
the Curtis's bow, departed into the cool night of Willowbrook,
leaving behind only the faint echo of his steps and
the certainty that justice, at least in the small corner
of England had been served. And that is the end.
Thank you for listening, and I will see you in
the next one.