Speaker 1: Hello, I'm welcomed, stories all the time. Glad you are here.
Let's get into it. They say, nothing ever disturbs the
peace of an English village. Yet on a certain September
morning in Rosel, the church bells told for a wedding
that would never be By sunset, the laughter of celebration
had been replaced with Wesper's a scandal. The flowers in
the isle with petals scattered like tears, and a bride
who should have walked down the isle had vanished without
a trace. It began with gaiety. Marlecom hall proud, an
ivy draped was alive with anticipation. Guests had arrived in
polished motor cars, Ladies adjusting feathered hats, gentlemen tugging at
stiff collars. The vicar rehearsed as lines beneath the vaulted beams,
and the organist's fingers trembled with importance of the occasion.
Billina Whitcomb, the bride, was the duel of the village,
admired for her beauty and envied for her inheritance. Captain
Rowland dismond O groom stood at the chancel in his uniform.
The very picture of honor and devotion. It should have
been the happiest of days. Yet beneath the surface there
ran undercurrent, subtle but undeniable. In the tea shop that week,
whispers had spread Olener had been restless, her smiles too brittle,
her eyes too often turned away. Some claimed she had
been seen arguing with her fiancee in the gardens. Others
swore her letters had gone missing. A farmer, leaning over
his pint, mattered darkly that not all who wished her
well meant her happiness. Still, the bells rang, the villages
filled the pews, and the expectant USh grew heavier. As
the I approached. Children tugged at their mother's sleeves. The
groom straightened his stance, the bridesmids adjusted their gloves. But
when the great clock struck neon, the doors of the
church remained closed. A murmur rippled through the congregation. Five
minutes passed, then nervous smiles faded. The organists, sweating, began
the march again and again, until even his courts faltered.
Captain dismans jaw tightened, Lady Wick compressed a trembling hand
to her pearls. At last, the butler entered pale as parchment.
He whispered to the groom, but the hush was so
deep that every year caught the words Miscelina is not
in her chamber, her gun lies untouched, she is gone
fun The word rolled through the church like thunder, a
fan clatter to the floor. Some one gasped aloud. In
the back row. A matrony voice broke the silence with
a chill certainty, mark me, well, this is no accident.
There has been foul play. And though no one yet
knew it, that vanished bride would soon draw the sharp
eyes of a certain Belgian detective, a man whose little
gray cell saw what others missed. For Herculeparot was about
to step into rose Hill, and where he warped, the
truth was never far behind. For a moment after the
butler's words, silence held the church in its grip. The
heavy beams of her heead seemed to echo with the
tolling bells, though they had ceased. Every guest stared, as
though willing the bride to appear by sheer force of desire.
But the doors remained shut, the aisle empty, the air
trembling with unease. Captain Dismond's face blanched. He stepped forward,
his boots striking sharply on the stone floor. This is absurd,
he barked, though his voice crashed beneath the strain. She
is she must be delayed. Send another servant to her chamber.
The butler, rigid with discomfort, lowered his gaze. I regret, sir.
Her chamber was searched, her gown still hands upon its stand,
her veil untouched. There is no sign of misceliner. A
murmur rose swelling like wind through the pews. Women clutch pearls.
Men frowned at one another. Children hushed instinctively, as though
sensing something dreadful. Lady Wickham half rose, her lips trembling.
She cannot have gone far. She was dressing only moments ago.
Perhaps perhaps she walked into the gardens. Her words, though desperate,
found no support in the eyes of those gathered. The
vicar cleared, Disfert swept, glistening on his brow. Let us
all remain calm. I am certain this is but some
trifling confusion. The bride will appear presently. But even he
glanced nervously toward the door, as though fearing what might
or might not come through it. From the back row.
Missess Pemberton, the matron whose voice carried through every market stall,
leaned forward, her eyes glittering nonsense. Girls do not vanish
from lock chambers unless there is wickedness of fruit. Mark me.
This is scandal and worse at once, speculation ignited like sparks.
She has eloped, whispered a young maid as wide with thrill,
ran away from the captain, muttered an old farmer, No,
no countered another. It is that fellow Charles, always lingering about,
never could let her be. Every whisper seemed to take root,
weaving doubt and suspicion through the congregation. Fingers pointed, names exchange,
and shadows lengthen across the Polish pews. Meanwhile, Captain Desman
strode toward the vestry. His steps are coined harshly. Hastings,
who had accompanied the ceremony as a guest of the vicar,
followed with uneasy concern. Dash it all, he muttered to himself.
A bride cannot simply vanish. Something's awfully wrong here. Lady
Wickham clutched her husband's sleeve, her face rained of color. Benedict,
you must find her early ener. She would not do
this willingly, not to us, not to day. Sir Benedict's
Joe worked silently, his eyes hollow and fearful, betrayed it.
He She believed this was no girlish one. Outside, duds gathered,
casting shadows over the hall's gardens. The churchyard, so bright
that morning, seemed suddenly muted, its flowers drooping under the
weight of the hush. A crow perched upon the wall
let out a single rasping cry, as though mocking the
human dismay. Within an hour, the wedding had dissolved into chaos.
Guests spilled into the grounds, searching the gardens, calling a
leaner's name across hedgerows and gravel paths. Servants sky at
the house, overturning trunks and wardrobes. Yet there was nothing,
no footprints in the gravel, no rustle of silk across
the lawns, no carriage that had departed, and seen only
the gown amorn and the veil untouched, bore silent witness
in her chamber. By evening, the village of roseall was
alive with rumor. Windows looked late forsius, low but urgent.
Some swore they had seen a shadow nearer the stables,
Others that a letter had been discovered in her writing desk.
Everywhere speculation bloomed like poisonous vines, and far away, in
a quiet and ware small Belgian gentleman enjoyed his supper
with meticulous precision. A telegrum was delivered to his table.
Fuarard adjusted his napkin, broke the seal, and read the
herd scroll. His dark eyes flickered with sudden interest, his
mustas quivering ever so slightly. A bride vanished on her
wedding day, he murmured, ah, Mongian, how curious. Yes, this
requires the little gray cells. He set aside his cup
of chocolate with care, rose to his feet and prepared
for Rose Hill, where, beneath the charm of lace and lilies,
he sensed the unmistakable stench of crime. The next morning
dawned with an unnatural stillness over Rose Hill, the village
usually alive with the clatter of cats and the laughter
of children on their way. Skull lay hushed beneath the
veil of speculation. Curtains twitched discreetly as neighbors were spot
of Velina Whitcomb's disappearance, and every corner of the market
square seemed filled with rumor. Some insisted she had fled
with a secret lover, others swore it was an aduction.
But by the ire of ten one truth stood above
all others. The village had become a stage, and the
missing bride the tragic star of its tail. Into this
atmosphere of knees rolled a motor car, polished to gleaming black.
It stopped before the iron gates of Morticombe Hall, and
from it descended a figure unmistakable in appearance, small stature
but radiating self possession. Hercule Borod adjusted his immaculate cuffs,
straightened the crease of his suit, and finally gave a proud,
careful twist to the ends of his wax mustache. His
patent lad isshues gleaned despite the dust of the road.
He surveyed the whole with narrowed eyes. Mais we, he murmured,
his accent, rolling gently, a house of grandeur, yet already
a smell disquiet. It is always so, Hastings when appearances
are too perfect. Hastings, who had joined him reluctantly at
the vicar's urging, shook his head in exasperation. Well, I
suppose it's a dreadful business, he said, But surely, poor ought,
the girl has only lost her nerve wittings, You know
they can be overwhelming affairs. Paw tapped one finger against
his temple. Lost her nerve. Perhaps yet she has also
lost her gown, her veil, herplace at the altar. None,
mon Army, the little gray cells tell me this is
not the work of girlish nerves. At the whole, the
butler received them with the bull that concealed an ease.
Sir Benedict, requests your presence, Monsieur Matters, here have taken
a most distressing turn. Inside, the atmosphere was thick with tension.
Servants passed hurried in the corridors, their eyes cast down,
while the great drawing room smelled faintly of Lily's gun.
Sire Overnight, Lady Wickcombe, pale and rigid in her chair,
rose as Porat entered. Her pearls trembled against her throut.
Monsieur Porat, she said, with brittle composure. You have been
most highly recommended. I beg you to uncover the truth
of my daughter's disappearance. We are her voice broke, and
she turned away. We are quite undone. Quat bowed deeply,
placing a hand to his heart. Madam, it will be
as you wish. Hercule Poat is at your service. Captain
Desmond stood at the ha, his posture rigid, his eyes
shadowed from a night without sleep. He regarded Powat with
barely concealed impatience. If you must investigate, Monsieur, I urge
you to be swift. Lenaer has doubtless been lowered away
by some mischief maker, perhaps the scoundrel Charles Bexley. He
has been a foreign in her side since their courtship ended.
Poor oughtenclined his head gravely, though his gaze lingered upon
the Captain's clenched fics the church of a muscle in
his jaw. He believed firmly then that Mademoiselle Whitcomb departed
with this Charles, I know it, Dismant snapped. The man
has ever hovered about her swing doubt, filling her head
with nonsense, and now, at the very hour of our union,
she vanishes. Is it not proof enough? Poiat? Raise one
bra prove Monsieur is a delicate matter. What we believe?
He may deceive us what we observe. AWE that is
the key. Hastings muttered, here we go under his breath.
Poatt silenced him with a glance. Sir Benedict, stooped yet dignified,
approached Monsieur Parrott. We are grateful for your presents. The
police have already questioned us in sky the grounds, but
they are convinced. Alyn A fled of her own will.
My heart tells me otherwise. I implore you find her,
Quart studded him intently. You love your daughter greatly, n
s e e pach. Then we must search for the truth.
No mata hounpalatable for truth. Like a seed cannot remain bared,
it will grow. He moved across the drawing room, eyes
darting from object to object. The faint mark of a
glass on a side table, the disorder of a stack
of envelopes, the smudge upon a curtain. Each detail he
observed with care, storing them in the laborrenth of his mind.
Madame Pouat said softly, turning to Lady Whitcombe, I will
ask to see the chamber of your daughter. It is there,
perhaps that the walls themselves may speak. They ascended the
grand staircase. The house was silent, safe for the creak
of polish would under those steps. At the end of
a corridor, Lina's chamber stood open, the air within still
carrying a faint fragrance of roses. Quaratt paused upon the threshold,
his eyes sweeping the room again. Upon its stand, gleamed white, uncreased,
its felled draped beside it like a shroud. A dressing
table bought the usual trifles of a young woman, a comb,
a powder box, a small vial of perfume. Yet one
drawer stood slightly a jar. Touch nothing, Boyart instructed. Raising
a delicate hand, he bent to examine the carpet near
the wardrobe, his eyes narrowing observe Hastings. One footprint here, faint,
as though the heel pressed harder than the terror. Yet
there are no others. Furious is it not? Hastings frowned.
But surely she left by the door. Where else could
she have gone? Powart's gaze shifted to the window. This
latch was unfastened, the curtain's thrown wide. The yond lay
the gardens, where gravel pass wind between rose bushes heavy
with bloom, He leaned closer, noting the fine trace of
soil upon the sill ah. He murmured, the lady leaves
her chamber not as the bride, but as the prisoner
who escapes, yet an escape of her own will or
of another's design. That, monamy, is the question. Lady Wickcomb
gave a strangled cry, you mean she was taken? Wereducted,
Woart did not answer once. Instead, he drifted to the
dressing table, where he lifted the powder box with gloved hands.
Inside A feigned impression lay upon the powder's surface, not
of a woman's slender finger, but brought her heavier. He said,
it done carefully. Some one was here, madam, he said,
at last, and not your daughter, a man, I think,
one who handled what was not his. The words sent
a fresh tremor through the room. Histing swallowed uneasily. Good
Lord Parart, you mean poor arup raised a hand. Patience,
mon army. Already I see that the tale told by
appearances is not the tale of truth. We must listen
more closely to objects, to silenders, to contradictions, and above
all to the hearts of men, for in them lies
the motive that no police constable will ever see. He
turned back to the window, his silhouette framed against the
gray morning. Somewhere in rose Hill, some one knows why
the bride did not stand before the altar. Hercule port
will know also, and then all then justice will follow.
The dining room of Marlacombe Hall usually was served for
grand dinners. Beneath the chandeliers had been hastily transformed into
a chamber of inquiry. Heavy curtains were drawn against the
morning sun, and the lawn oak table stood bare safer
a jug of water and a scattering of chairs. The
air hummed with tension for the household need that Hercule
Potte was about to begin his questions. Pat himself entered
with deliberate grace. Each step measured, his mustere immaculate, his
gaze shop as a surgeon's scalpel. Hastings followed no book
at the ready, though his expression suggested deepenees at the
ordeal to come. Art raised his hand, Madam e t messrs,
I beg of you calm. We are not here to accuse,
only to inquire the truth. It has a way of
revealing itself. Yes, but first we must listen to every voice.
Sir Bennedict sat stiffly at the head of the table,
his lined face drawn with grief. Lady wickham linga beside him,
her hands twisting a lace handkerchief. Captain Desman stood apart,
his back raged against the mental peace, while the housekeeper,
Missus Ellison, half with nervous eyes. Others had been summoned
to Charles Bexley, the jilted suitor of Clara, Lina's maid,
and even Missess Pemberton, the village matron whose gossip carid
father than any carriage. Bell Hoora began with Sir Benedict, Monsieur,
you will forgive me you lost saw your daughter at
what ire before the ceremony. Sir Benedict's voice was low,
steady only by effort. At half past ten, she was
in her chamber, dressing with Clara's help. She kissed me
upon the cheek, said she was ready to make me proud. Ay,
I thought her radiant. Did she appear anxious, but bride
is always anxious, Sir benat Dick murmured, but there was
no signs she would vanish. Poort inclined his head. Mercy monsieur.
He turned to Lady whitcomb, and you, madam, you observe her.
After this moment, Lady Wickham dowted her eyes. I looked
in a quarter to eleven. She was pale, yes, but composed.
The gown still hung and touched for She said she
wished to dress only at the final moment, to preserve
it from crease. I told her how beautiful she would look.
She smiled, but it was oh, how shall I put it?
A smile without warmth? Poor's eyes gleamed a smile without
warmth trace in to reescent. Next he turned toward Clara,
the maid who sat bringing her apron. Clara, you assisted
your mistress that morning, Yes, monsieur, Clora stammered. I brushed her,
her set out her shoes. She seemed thoughtful, not frightened exactly,
but quiet. She asked me if I thought marriage was
the same as happiness. I did not know what to say,
and then Poor repressed. She dismissed me, said she want
to the moment alone. I left at half past eleven.
When I returned at noon, she was gone. Her gown
was there and touched. As the butler said, I swear it, monsieur,
I swear it on my life, wart studded her keenly
on the window. It was lunch when I left. When
I returned, it stood open. A ripple passed around the room.
Wuarret noted who paled her friend? Who concealed their reaction? Now,
he said, his gay sliding toward Captain Dismond. Monsieur, le captain,
you were to be the bridegroom. Yes, tell me what
passed between you and Mademoiselle Wickem in the days before
the wedding. Dismund stiffened, color rising to his cheeks. What
passes between any couple. We spoke of our future, of
our home. She was she was sometimes hessitant, but she
is young, I reassured her. Quaartt's tone sharpened. Hesitant in
what way? In every way? Dismond snapped, one moment eager,
the next were drawn. Women are creatures of nerves. But
she loved me, Monsieur of that, I am certain, were
it not for the interference of Charles Bexley, she would
be here beside me now. At once, all eyes turned
toward Charles, who lunged carelessly in his chair, though his
eyes betrayed strain. Ah. Charles gave a short laugh. I
loved Alena once. Yes, but she chose this man, much
to her misfortune. I would hardly disrupt her wedding. You
did not call upon her, write to her in the
weeks before, Quarat asked smoothly. Charles spread his hands. I
may have written once or twice, yes, but what of it?
Old affection dies hard still. I am no villain if
she is vanished. The explanation lied elsewhere. Quaratt leaned forward,
his gaze piercing, And where, sir, do you say it lies?
Charles's lips curved in a faint smile. Perhaps she came
to her senses. Perhaps she saw through the Captain's charm
and fled. Who cansey? Captain Desmond surged forward, fist clenched,
but Powatt lifted one hand. Gentlemen, as I a vuplate,
anger clouds for little gray cells. Let us remain calm. Finally,
Barat turned to Missess Pemberden, who perched eagerly upon her chair,
her eyes bright with scandal. You, madame, you are of
the village. You hear what others do not? What do
they whisper in the lanes of Rosell. Missus Pemberton leaned forward,
lowering her voice though every one could hear. They say
miss Elinor feared her marriage. They say she walked with
mister Charles in secret, though her mother forbade it. They
say the captain was jealous, jealous enough to frighten her.
And they say, monsieur, that in the dead of night
a carriage was heard upon the lane. Gasps filled the room.
Sir Benedict rose half from his chair, trembling. Dis mins
wore under his breath. Charles smirked bitterly. Wouarat, however, only
closed his eyes, as though savoring the taste of each word.
When he spoke again, his voice was calm, deliberate. Whispers, yes,
but whispers are not the truth. The truth it hides
beneath what men deny, what women fear to speak, what
servants observe but do not understand. I will find it
already as he contradictions. Already the patam begins to form.
He stood, buttoning his coat with precision. For now, I
thank you all you have given me the threads. Soon
I shall weave the tapestry, and when it is complete,
it will reveal to us who has silenced the bride.
The room fell into a heavy silence, Each person shifted
uneasily beneath the weight of Poot's words. Outside, the hall's
ancient clock struck the ire as time echoing through the
corridors like a solemn warning parts. I swept over them, all,
the grieving parents, the angry groom, the jilted suitor at
the trampling mate, the gossiping massion. He saw their fear,
their secrets, their lies unspoken, and deep within he knew
the truth was there, waiting like a shadow behind the curtains.
Courage m E s Amos, he said softly. The bride
is vanished, but she is left behind, her story written
in signs too small foremost to see, perkull poart. He
will read them. The following day, rose Hill awoke to
the clutter of boots and the murmur of official voices.
Two constables from the county arrived at Morlecombe Hall, their
uniforms lending a sense of grim authority to situation already
fraught with tension. Villages gathered at the gates, their faces
eager with curiosity, whispering among themselves as the policemen were
ushered inside. By breakfast, the rumors had settled upon a
single name, Charles Bexley. His pass affection for Elena, his
defiant manner in Poorot's questioning, and his reputation for ricklessness
made him, to the villager's minds the perfect culprit. In
the drawing room, Inspector Graves, a tall man with a
heavy brow and a click manner, addressed the assembled family.
It is our belief, he declared that miss Whitcomb de
parted his house, willingly ate it, and abitted by mister Bexley.
We have reason to think they planned an elopement, and
that she may yet be with him. Captain Desmond seized
upon the words at last, since I told you from
the beginning that Bexley was behind this, he has ever
been jealous of me, jealous of Elner's choice, arrest him
at once. Lady Wickham gasped, pressing a handkerchief to her lips.
Lena would never Elope, never. She is obedient, dutiful. She
would not shame us so its Spector Grave's tone was firm, Madam.
Young women have been known to act rashvill We found
evidence that suggests her chamber window was opened from within.
The simplest explanation is often the truest. Poarat who had
been quietly buttering a roll with the utmost care, raised
his brows. The simplest explanation, monsieur, is not always the
correct one. A window open, yes, But why when the
door stood ready? Why leave the gown and touch the
vilain disturbed dis a bride eager to flee, not at
least take with her the symbol of free union? None? None,
It is illogical. The inspector's eyes narrowed with respect, Monsieur Parrot.
The County Constabulary has solved more than one disappearance. Your
foreign notions may not apply here. Warat dowbed his lips
with his napkin. As you wish, monsieur, proceed, proceed, only
remember the little gray cells. They demand order. Without order,
one is led astray. By noon, Charles Bexley had been
summoned to the hole once more. He entered with a
swagger that blied the tension in his jaw. So the
hounds are set upon me, he said coolly. I expected
as much, you brother. Blame the discarded love of the face,
the truth that your golden captain may not be so golden. Silence,
Captain desmonth thunder taking a threatening step forward, Ye dare
insult me in this house. Charles folded his arms, insult you.
I merely state what half the village suspects already. Alinafrugi Roland,
she told me so. The words fell like stones and
water rippling through the room. Lady wickhamb cried out, Sir
Benedict rose stricken. This man's face darkened with fury. Lies,
all lies, she adored me, and you you are nothing
but a bitter, rejected fool. Inspector Garades interjected, sharply enough,
mister Bexley, we have reason to suspect your involvement. Did
you or did you not write to Miss Whitcomb in
a day's preceding the wedding? I wrote, Charles admitted his
tone defiant letters of concern. I begged her to think
carefully before binding herself to a man she did not trust.
Is that a crime? Graves produced a slip of paper.
This letter was found in Miss Wickcombe's desk, dated three
days before her disappearance. Yet you urge her to meet
you at the old mill. Explain that, Sir Amrmurs reread
among the onlookers. The old mill, half ruined and overgrown,
stood at the edge of the Whitcomb's state lon abandoned
save for Trice and Dares whispered among village youths Charles's
face paled, though he held his chin high. Yes, I
asked her to meet me there. She never came. I waited,
and I left before midnight. If she vanished, it was
not with me. Braves leaned forward a convenient story. You
will accompany us for further questioning. At once U folfilled
the room. Lady Wickham clutched her husband's arm, trembling, Benedict,
they are taking him. What if it is true? What
if Elinear is lost to us forever? Sir Benneddict shook
his head, his features carved with anguish. No, Clorissa, our
daughter would not flee with him. She is loyal, staid fast.
There is falp lay here, not elopement amid the tumult
pour out Rose smoothing his suit with immaculate precision. His
voice is comyac commanding, cut through the noise. Messymos, you
rush to the easy solution. But consider if Mademoiselle Elena
wished to meet Monsieur Bexley, would she not have dressed
for the purpose yet her gown her veil. Her shoes
all remain untouched. Would she leap from a window leaving
no mark upon the gravel path below unless aided? And
this letter all? But I have examined it. The ink
is smudged, not behaste, but by a kalless hand. It
was intercepted, perhaps perhaps even planted. Inspector Gray's lips tightened.
Are you suggesting forgery? I suggest only part, replied Smooley,
that not everything is as it appears. The obvious suspect
is very often the false one, That is the lesson
of human nature. Charles, flanked by constables, showed a final
glance toward Poora. If you are half the detective, they say,
prove my innocence, well, let me rot while the real
villain walk free. They let him away. The great doors
of the hall, slamming ship behind the family, remained in
stun silence. Only Poatt moved, pacing the length of the
room with his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes
clinting with thought. At last he spoke, it is a puzzle, Hastings,
a puzzle most delicate. The police believe they have their man,
But I hercule porat, I am not so convinced. No,
there are contradictions, and when contradictions arise, there is always deception.
Hastings frowned, But surely pourat the letter Poard interrupted gently.
The letter mon Umi is allure, a red herring, as
you English say, some one seeks to draw suspicion toward
Charles Becksleaf, to remove him from the stage. But why that, Hastings,
is the question that will lead us to the heart
of this mystery. He palls to the window, gazing out
over the gardens, where roses drooped beneath the weight of
morning rain. Mark me well, the truth hides not in
wood a shouted, but in what is whispered. We must
listen more closely, Hastings, much more closely. The rain had
not ceased by afternoon, drumming steadily upon the tall windows
of Marlecombe Hall. Within the household sat subdued, the echo
of Charles Bexleas's removal lingering like the last note of
a dirge. Our Benedict retreated to his library. Lady whuldcome
rested upon a chaise, and Captain Dismin prowled the corridors
with the restless impatience of a caged animal. Warat meanwhile
requested that Hastings accompany him too. Lener's chamber, It is there,
mon army. He murmured that the truth whispers. A room
abandoned at the moment of crisis often reveals what no
interrogation can. The chamber still be deck for the wedding
struck Histings with melancholy. The gown hung upon its stand
lay scleaming pale in the dim light. The veil trailed
across a chair, like a phantom of the bride who
never wore it. Flowers in a vasive began to droop,
their fragrance faint yet clawing. Wart surveyed the room with
a precision that was almost reverent. He touched nothing at first,
only paced slowly, his head inclined, his eyes darting to corners, shelves,
and shadows. At length, he stopped beside the dressing table.
Regard Hastings. Do you observe? Hastings peered at the clutter,
a silver backed brush, a small hand mirror, bottles of sand.
I see nothing remarkable. It looks just as a young
lady's table. Knight Quarat bent closer, but considered mounami, the brush,
the colm, the mirror, all in order. Yet this flacken
of perfume, it is moved, pushed to the very edge,
as though in haste, and beneath say a faint ring
of moisture. Hastings blinked, perfumes built. Well, what of it? Quart,
smile faintly. It is not the spill, Hastings, but the absence.
There is no bottle toppled, no glass broken. The moisture
came from another source. He touched the mock with a
glove finger, then lifted a delicate scrap of paper from
behind the table leg. It was a torn fragment of envelope,
pitches crumbled, faint traces of being blurred by water. Hastings
leaned in by jove Bora. Do you suppose it belonged
to Becks's letter? Quart examined the scrap beneath the light. None.
The handwriting is different, smaller neater, and the ink awe.
It is of another hue. Entirely this fragment belongs to
a letter not yet produced, perhaps a letter e Lena
received in secret, a letter which is sought to conceal,
yet in her haze, dropped and half destroyed. The discovery unsettled,
Hastings But why would she hide it from her parents,
from her fance? Pooratt replaced the scrap gently in his pocket.
That Hastings we shall uncover. But note this well, if
she intended to elope with Bexley, would she keep hidden
correspondence from another? Now there is a third presence in
this drama, one not yet accused. Their search continued. Paratt
examined the window with meticulous care. Outside the gravel path
glistened ware, yet no disturbance marred its smooth surface. Hastings
observe again, if Mademoiselle Lena climbed down, where are the
imprints with the scattered stones that displaced pebbles? There are none.
She did not descend by the window, Hastings frown. Then
why was it opened? Paratt tapped his temple to create
the illusion, mon Army, An open window is a convenient tale.
The true exit must lie elsewhere. He crossed to the wardrobe,
opening its polished doors. Inside hung Elina's garments, rore upon
roe silks and linens. He ran his hand along them
until his fingers paused at a gap between dresses. Upon
the floor lay a faint smere, darker than the wood
around it. Quart croached, inspecting it closely, Grease Hastings, the
mock of a candle al Lanton placed carelessly. Who brings
a lantern into a young lady's wardrobe, save one who
comes secretly by night? Hastings shivered poorat this grows darker
by the moment. Are you suggesting she was taken abducted?
Pouyat rose, his expression grave. Perhaps, or perhaps she went willingly,
guided by a hand she trusted. But always, always there
is deception. The lantern, the hidden letter, the understirved gown.
They tell us a story most unlike the tale of
police proclaim. A knock sounded at the door, and Lady
Wickham entered, her eyes red from weeping. Monsieur Parrot, forgive me.
I know the police are quite certain, but my heart
insists Elina would not run with Charles. She was too proud,
too dutiful. POI bowed, madam, your heart speaks a truth.
May I ask? Did Elena receive many letters these weeks
from friends, acquaintances. Lady Wickham hesitated. There was one, I
think a correspondent. She did not show me. She grew secretive,
even anxious. When I pressed her, she said only that
it was of no consequence. Part inclined his head thoughtfully,
no consequence. Indeed, such words often mass the gravest matters.
After she departed, Hastings whisper, poarart are you suggesting another man?
Part did not answer her. Once he stood at the window,
gazing out at the reins wet gardens. At last he murmured,
another man, another woman, another secret? Who can say? But
I tell you this, Hastings, We are chasing shadows if
we persue only Bexley the true clue. It lies here
in this room, and in what is missing, in what
is headen? That evening, Warat returned to the drawing room,
where Sir Bennedict's sat by the fire, his features haggard
the detective hell fragment of envelope. Monsieur, do you recognize
his hand? Sir Benneddet peered at it, then shook his head. No,
it is not Charles nor Rowland's. But wait, I have
seen such group before. The curate mister Latham writes in
such a small, neat manner he often sends me notes
regarding the parish accounts. Quart's eyes glimmered. Ah, then tomorrow
we shall pay a visit to the vicarage. Hastings looked astonished.
The curate, surely you cannot think a man of the cloth,
Waratt interrupted softly. We must not think mon army. We
must observe in observation tells me this lener Wickhambe was
in communication with someone unknown, someone who wish a kept secret.
Until we uncover the sender, the mystery remains unsolved. He
folded the fragment away, his manner composed yet inwardly, burning
with quiet triumph. For in a tiny piece of torn
paper lay the first true crack, and a facade of lies,
a clue in detail that promised to unravel the vanishing
bride fade. Morning brooke gray and heavy, the air clinging
with dampness from the night's rain. Marlacum. Whole seemed subdued,
as if the house itself carried the weight of a knees.
The servants whispered nervously in corners, and the family took
breakfast and strained silence. Every clink of cutlery punctuated by
glances that spoke of suspicion and fear. Poorart entered the
dining room with his usual immaculate decision his mustaches gleamed,
his shoe shone, and yet his expression was pensive. Histings followed,
still troubled by the previous day's discoverers. Lady Wickham rose
as they entered Monsieur porart. You promised to look further
into the matter. Have you learned anything? Powart bowed slightly, Madame,
I have learned this. The truth lies not upon the surface,
but beneath, and already small cracks revealed themselves in the
beautiful mask your household wares. Captain Desmond gave a scoffing laugh.
You speak in Riddle's porart. The case is simple. Charles
Bexley sought revenge, and Elena foolishly trusted him. The police
will prove it. Quart's eyes glinted so so then Moncapitaine,
yet certain he can be a dangerous luxury. He paused,
then added, delicately, you love Mademoiselle Eleiner. Did you not this?
Men bristled naturally. She was to be my wife. Powart
tilted his head, and yet she confided in others that
she feared you. Did you know this? The Captain's face flushed.
Crimson lies, fixeless lies. I never raised a hand against
a lener. She she misunderstood my temper. I am a soldier,
poor up firm, perhaps, but never cruel. The room fell
into silence. Sir Bennedict shifted and easily in his chair.
Lady Whitcombe tabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, and Hastens
noted how the tensions seemed to thicken with each passing.
The second quart smiled faintly, as if filing the matter away,
and turned instead to Sir Benedict. Monsieur, forgive my intrusion,
but I must ask your finances. They are stable, are
they not? The baronet stiffened. Our affairs are private mice,
we poorat said softly. And yet in matters of crime,
prodscy often conceals motive. I hear whispers that Marlcombe Hall,
with all its grunturer, is not what it appears. That's
perhaps a mortgage and paid. Lady Wickcomb gasped, powat, you
cannot mean that, Sir ben It if raised a hand enough, Coloressa,
the detective is correct. The estate is not as secure
as it once was. Agricultural returns have been poor, investments
and wise. But Alina's marriage to Captain Desmond would have
restored all. His fortune is considerable. Poard inclined his head awe.
So the union was not only of hearts, but also
of necessity. Interesting an sepa. The smith spoke sharply, a
are you suggesting her family pushed her into marriage against
her will? Poat did not answer directly. Instead, he lifted
his brows and allowed the silence to speak. It was
lady Whitcombe who faltered first. She was dutiful, she would
not refuse her father, and knock interrupted them. The butler,
solemn as always, entered bearing a small tray. Monsieur pow
a messenger, delivered this at the gate, addressed to you.
Ward accepted the envelope with a small bow. He slid
it open carefully and unfolded this single sheet within his eyes,
skimmed the knee handwriting, and at once his brows drew together.
Hist regard it is unsigned, yet it reads seek not
in the hall, but in the church there lies the
truth Hastings exclaimed by Jove Powart. Another clue, Qouarrott tapped
the paper yes un observed the hand the same small
neat writing as the fragment we discovered yesterday. The curate perhaps,
or one who imitates his style. We must investigate. Within
the hour, Porot and Hastings made their way to the
village church, a modest stone building with ivy climbing its
ancient walls. Inside, the curate, mister Latham, greeted them with
nervous cursy. He was within man spectacle, his manner earnest
yet uneasy, Monsieur Poarat, Captain Hastings, what an honor I
confess the village is abuzz with your presence. How may
I be of service? Poarart studded him, keenly. Monsieur lecier
I am told. He corresponded with Mademoisellelina. Is this true?
Lath mplushed why yes? In a manner she confided in
me saw counsel. She was troubled about her marriage. Troubled
how Powart asked softly. The curate hesitated, then lowered his voice.
She feared it was arranged for her family's sick rather
than her own. She cared for Captain Desmond. Yes, but
she also felt bound by judy. She told me once
she wished she could choose freely, without consideration of fortune
or honor. Hastings exchanged a look with Poorat. Did she
ever mention Charles Bexley, The Curate sighed she did. She
admitted she had once cared for him, but she could
not forgive his recklessness. Yet even so she pitied him.
She did not wish to see him ruined. Poorat lean closer, Monsieur,
did you write to her a letter that might be
discovered among her things? The Curate's eyes widened. No, I
swear it. I only advised her when she came here
in person. If there is such a letter, some one
has used my hand as disguise. Woart's gaze sharpened just
so some one has imitated you, Monsieur Latham. That is
most curious. As they departed the church, Hastings mutter. So
Lena's family needed her marriage, She doubted her fance, pitied
her former lover, and sought advice from the Curate. That
is a tangle. Indeedhois nodded a tangle, yes, and each
red hides a lie. This man's temper, Sir Benedict's debts
a letter forged to mislead. All these suggests more than
chance lies. Mon army always service. One need only be patient.
Back at the hall, another storm of revelations awaited. The housemaid,
trembling and pale, confessed to Lady Wickham that she had
seen Captain Desmond in the garden late at night, speaking
in hushed tones with a stranger. When pressed, she described
the figure as cloaked, indistinct, but not Charles Bexley faatt
listened intently a stranger at Marlacum on the eve of
the wedding. Oh, this is most suggestive. This men confronted
grew defensive a lie from a frightened girl. I was
restless walking the grounds. I spoke to no one but
poor Outsize glittered. Ah. But you see, when lies are told,
they multiply, and when they multiply, the truth struggles to
be free. Soon, hasting, very soon, we shall see which
of these lies unrevels first. That night, as the household
re tie of under a shroud attention, Puart sat in
his chamber the anonymous note upon his desk. He tapped
it gently with one finger. More lies, hastings, but lies
they all like smoke, trace them to their soarse any
fine fire. The stone that had threatened all afternoon broken
on us. By evening. Rain lashed the windows of Morlecombe Hall.
Thunder rumbled across the hills, and the great house seemed
to quiver beneath. The fury of the elements within the
atmosphere was no less turbulent. The Whitcomb's dined intense silence,
every forklifted with the weight of unspoken dread. Powart sat serene,
though his eyes flickered from face to face, observing the
tremour of hand, the hesitation of a reply, the restless
glance toward the door. Hastings beside him, could hardly for
the uneies that pressed upon the table like a suffocating fog.
At last, Sir Bennedict broke the silence warat He said heavily,
this cannot continue. The household is unraveling, My wife is
near collapse, my servants are uneasy, and the villager's whisper
scandal every turn. If Elina is gone forever, I would
rather know it than endure this torment. Poorart set down
his knife and fork with deliberate care patience. Sir Benedict,
the truth is near already, the lies unravel fred by thread.
Soon there will come a moment when the masked slips
and the face beneath his reveal, Captain Disman gave a
harsh laugh, fine words, Parart. But meanwhile my honor is
dragged through the mire. I made to appear a brute,
a fortune hunter. If Feliner doubted me, she was deceived.
I loved her more than life itself. His voice cracked
on the last words. He rose, suddenly, pacing the length
of the room like a man pursuit by ghosts. Lady
would come burst into tears, murmuring Elina's name. Poorartt's eyes narrowed.
He loved her, mon Capitaine. Yet he spoke to a
stranger in the garden on the eve of your wedding.
Who was this person? This man stopped, short, colored raining
from his face. I told you it was no one
I worked alone. The butler, discreet until now, coughed softly.
If I may, sir, I too saw the Captain that
night from the servant's wing. He was speaking with a
cloaked figure near the yew hedge. I thought it strange,
but I dare not intrude. A collective gas bran around
the table Dismint's sland, his fist upon the mantle lies.
Do you all conspire against me? Forwart's tone was quiet,
almost gentle. None, mom, Captain, but your agitation betrays you.
If it was an innocent meeting, why conceal it? Dismant's
composure shadow He turned, his face, pale, his eyes wild.
Very well, I will tell you it was a Leaner
I met in the garden that night. The words fell
like thunder. Lady Wickham clutched her chest. Sir Benedict half
rose from his chair. Hastings stared in disbelief. Desmond pressed on, desperate.
Now she came to me weeping. She confessed she was frightened,
frightened of what lay ahead. She begged me to release
her from the engagement, to let her go, Frey, I
swore I would not. I told her she was overwrought,
that in the morning she would see reason. She ran
from me, then vanished into the shadows. That was the
last I saw of her. Silence reigned, broken only by
the storm outside. Borat's gaze was piercing. Mon Capitaine, you
did not tell this before. Why Desmond's vois shook because
it damns me? Do you not see? If Eliner fled
it was because she dreaded me. And if she is dead,
if harrm has come to her. Every one will say
it was I who drove her to it. Lady Whitcombe
sobbed openly, while Sir Benedict about his head in anguish hastings,
Poor Art, what are we to make of this? Art
raised a hand, Come mon army. This revelation changes much.
Yet know it well, des men's words, Confermelina was alive
that night, after Charles Bexley was long come from the grounds.
This clears Bexley of one suspicion, though it deepens the
mystery of Elina's fate. The Captain's ank into her chair,
burying his face in his hands. His prodomino was gone,
replaced by the broken desperation of a man cornered. Porot
watched him for a long moment, then turned to Sir Benedict, Monsieur,
did your daughter confide in you of her fears? Sir
Benedict's poisee was hoarse. No, she was always dutiful, always obedient.
I thought her happy, Bard helped me. I thought only
of the estate of our debts. I believed her marriage
would save us all. Pouart inclined his head, his tone
unusually soft, and so you pressed her to wed, though
her heart was troubled. Do you see, monsieur, how the
weight of duty can crush even the strongest spirit. Sir
Benedict groaned, as if the truth had struck him like
a blow. Lady Wickcombe, trembling, whispered, we have destroyed her,
Benedict ur Elner. If she has perish, it is by
our hand as much as by another's quarat. Let the
silence linger, the storm raging outside mirroring the storm within.
Then he said, quietly, courage, madam, we are not Yes
at the end, Mademoiselle Alina's face is hidden, but not forever.
Already the veil lifts. That night, after the household retire.
Hastings feanpoist pacing their chamber out, his hands clasped behind
his back, his face aglow with thought. Pouarat, Hastings, venture,
do you believe this man confession that he saw a
leaner in the garden? Four up? Pause, Then shook his
head slowly, partly monomy the truth, It is often wrapt
in a garment of lies. He saw her, yes, she
spoke of fear. Yes, But there is more. He tells
us only what suits his honor. There are details he conceals,
Hastings frowned. But why conceal them if the truth might
clear him? Poorer's eyes gleamed, Because the truth, Hastings, is
more dangerous. Still. We approach the heart of the matter.
One more push and the mask will fall away entirely.
He lifted the anonymous note once more, its words stock
upon the page. Seek not in the hall, but in
the church, there lies the truth. Tomorrow, Hastings, we return
to the church, and there I think we shall find
the piece that completes the puzzle. Outside, lightning split the sky,
casting morlacomb Hole in a sudden blaze of white, before
plunging it back into darkness. Within the household lay restless
in their beds, each soul burdened with secrets. And in
his chamber, Root smiled faintly, for he knew the moment
of revelation was drawing close. The following morning dawned clearer
that the heavy clouds still loomed like watchful eyes of
a morlacombe. The storm of the previous night had left
the lawn soden, and the air smelt of wet earth
and roses beaten down by rain. Within the hall, the
atmosphere was even more fragile. The household lingered in corridors
and drawing rooms, unable to escape the weight of unanswered questions.
Warart dressed with his usual immaculate care, to send to
the Grand staircase, as though nothing in the world disturbed him. Histings, however,
noted the peculiar gleam in his friend's eye. It was
the look of a man who had decided upon a
move in a game of chess, a move that would
changed the board entirely. Over breakfast, Warat spoke lightly, mess
Amos this afternoon, I should like us all to gather
in the library. There matters to be clarified. The truth.
It comes not by accident, but by design, And died
Hercule pot I shall provide the design. So Benydict frowned,
Do you mean you know what happened to Eleiner? Warat
inclined his head gravely. I know enough to be certain
that when among us has lied, and continues to lie
to day, the lie shall be stripped away. Lady whit compaled,
Monsieur Poaratt, must we endure more torment? Quarat's voice oftened, courage,
Madam better the torment of truth than the slow poison
of uncertainty. The word poison seemed to ripple through the room.
Captain Disman stiffened, Charles Bexley's name was muttered once more
by the servants, and even the butler shifted uneasily. By
three o'clock a household assembled in the library, Sir Benedict
and Lady Whitcombe, pale and drawn, Captain Dissemond restless and sullen.
Inspector Graves convinced he had his man already, the curate
mister Latham summoned under polite insistence, and even Charles Bexley
himself brought back under Parat's intervention. The storm had passed,
but the tension inside the great room was like a
top string ready to snap. Quart stood before the great fireplace,
his hands clasped, his eyes bright. Hastings watched him with admiration,
for here was part in his element, the master upon
his stage, my friends, Powart began his voice, calm but
carrying easily to every air. We gat a hear not
to indulge in gossiper accusation, but to see the truth
revealed already. The police are content with their solution. But
I herkill parrot, and not so easily satisfy. There are
thorts that do not align, details that contradict, and when
factch refuse to agree, it means one thing only there
is to see. Inspector Gray is bristled, Woira, with respect,
you complicate? What is symbol? The man becks of Lord
mis Wick. Come away as plain as day, Quartz smiled gently,
as plain as dey none monsieur. If it were plain,
why then do the details cry out? Why was the
gown untouched, the veil abandoned? Why were there no marks
upon the gravel path. Why does a fragment of ladobeer
a hand not of Bexley but of another, And why
above all this Captain Desmond concealed that he met the
bride on the very night she vanished. A collective murmur
spread across the room. This man's jaw tightened. I told
you the truth last night. Quarro's mustache is twitched, he told,
as part of the truth, Mon capitaine, that is not
the same, He turned, pacing slowly. Consider also the debts
of Sir Benedict, debts that would be erased by this marriage.
Consider the anxiety of Lady Whitcombe who pressed her daughter
toward duty. Consider the curate who gave a vice, but
whose hand was imitated in a forged letter. Consider Charles Bexley,
painted his villain, but more victim of circumstance and criminal
quorartopped suddenly, his eyes glivering. But most of all, consider
the church Twice now a note has urged us toward it.
Why because within its walls lies the key, a secret
that binds this mystery together. Lady wickhamb gasped the church,
What could possibly be there? Waart held up a hand. Patience, madam,
we shall see. But before that, one among you must
face the question. Who sought to silence lean her Witcombe?
Who feared her doubts, her hesitations, her confessions? Who had
most to lose if she spoke freely? The silence that
followed was unbearable. Wat let it stretch, his gaze, moving
deliberately from face to face, watching the torch of an eye,
the swallow overthroat, the tremor of a hand. Hastings recognized
it for what it was, poortstrap. He was not accusing directly,
not yet, he was applying pressure, letting the guilty conscience
strain beneath the weight of unspoken suspicion. It was Lady
Whitcomb who cracked first. With a sudden cry. She rose
to her feet, her hands trembling. I swear to you,
I never wished to lean her harm. I pressed her, yes,
but only because I feared for our home, for our family.
I thought Captain Dismant a good man. I thought she
would be safe. Sir Bennedict caught her arm, but pour
out raised a finger. Ah madam, your words are most revealing.
You fear for the estate, You feared for appearances. But
did you fear for a leaner herself? Tears ran down
her cheeks. Ay had I thought duty would bind her.
She was strong, she would never betray us. I did
not know she was so afraid. Quaat's voice softened. You
did not see because you did not wish to see.
But only Nur saw. And she confided in another one
who promised her understanding, but who, in truth, betrayed her.
Truss His eyes turned suddenly sharply to Captain Dismond. Mon capitaine,
shall we tell them of the rain? Desmond started violently
the ring, What do you mean? Tuartz stepped closer, his
voice low but clear. The engagement ring, Hastings. You recall
it was absent from Eliner's chamber. Yet last night in
the Captain's room I observed a small velvet case hidden
within a drawer empty. A gasp echoed. Hastins's heart lurched.
Lady Wickham plutched at her throat. Quartz gazed, bowed into Dismont.
If Elina fled you, she would not return the ring.
If she was taken by another, they would not trouble
to remove it. Only one scenario explains it. She gave
it back in anger and sorrow to you, Captain Desmond,
on that night in the garden. Desmond's face was ashen. No,
she she did give it back, but only because she
was as draught asward her. She would change her mind.
Twart's tone sharpened. And when she did not, when she
insisted upon her freedom, what then, Montcabadaine, did your pride,
your honor? You're desperate need overcome your love? The room
held its breath. Dismond's hands clenched his chest, heaving. For
a moment, it seemed he would speak, confess, break entirely. Waratwaited.
The silent stretch taught us wire the trap tightening with
every heart beat. At last, Desmond sight into a chair,
his voice hoarse. You do not understand, you cannot. I
loved her, she was mine. I could not let her go.
Ward exchanged a glance with Hastings, and in that look
lay confirmation. Shrap hads brun. The truth was nearly a hand. Tomorrow,
Poora declared quietly. We go to the church, and there
am he s amos, we shall uncover the final proof.
Prepare yourselves, the end is near. The following day broke
pale and chill, though the air was still heavy with
the promise of another storm. The villagers, quick to seize
upon every whisper already spoke of part summons with hushed reverence.
Morlacum had never known such spectacle. To them, the Belgian
detective was as mysterious as a crime itself. At noon,
the library once again filled with uneasy figures. Sir Benedict
leaned against Mantle, his face reigned. Lady w Comb sat rigidly,
her hands folded tight. Charles bead Exley stood defiant through
shadows under his eyes, betrayed exhaustion. Inspector Graves loomed at
the back, unwilling yet to admit he had been not paced.
Captain Thisisman entered last, his uniform impeccable, his joe clenched.
Quartz arrayed them all with serene composure. Hastings noted the
meticulousness of his attire, the immaculate mustaches, the gleam in
his eyes. Parrott was at his most dangerous, calm, confident, precise,
My friends, he began softly. We meet for the last
time upon this unhappy business. He seek the truth of Elena,
whit comes disappearance. The police are content with their simple explanation.
But I, Hercule Poirot, cannot accept simplicity when the details
cry against it, and so I give you the truth.
Respector Graves interrupted Quart. Enough of speeches. If you have proof,
present it. Puarat inclined his head gravely. Ah. But proof
it comes not in a manner you expect. Moncher. The
English police, they desire finger prints for Prince, material evidence.
But sometimes the greatest proof lies here. He tapped his temple.
In the psychology, in the order, in the motive, he
stepped forward his voice. Daddy, let us begin at the beginning.
Lina Wickcombe, a young woman of wealth and duty, engaged
to Captain Dismond. Yet she was torn, torn between filial
duty and her heart. There existed a former suitor, Charles Bexley, passionate,
reckless but true. Her mother urged her toward dismound. Her
father pressed for the alliance. Yet Elina doubted. She feared,
And it is enough fear that we find our crime.
Quarart's gazewept cross the room, Lady Wickham trembled, Sir Bennedict
shifted uncomfortably. On the night before the wedding, Poyat continued.
Elina walked in the garden. There she met Captain Dismond.
She returned to him the engagement ring. Why because she
could not marry him. She confessed her dread, her wish
to be free, gasped filled the room. Dismond's face paled,
Powart's mustaches quivered. To a man of pride of honor,
such as our captain, this was not merely rejection. It
was humiliation. He had courted her, secure uard, the blessing
of her family, built his future upon her fortune. To
lose her meant not only the loss of love, if
indeed there was love, but also a status of abansement
of reputation, and so his hard closed to reason. He
resolved she would not escape. Lady Wickham whispered, no, no,
it cannot be, But it is, Madame, Poirot said gently.
He persuaded Elena to meet him later, under pretense of reconciliation.
He drew her to the church, placed both private and symbolic. There,
an argument flared. Lenier's defiance grew. This men's temper snapped
in anger, in despair, he struck. Perhaps it was not intended,
but the blow was fatal. Hastings felt the chill run
down his spine. The library seemed to shrink around them.
Pois press on relentless. Now comes the cleverness to disguise
his acts. Men contrived the scene of an elopement, a
discarded veil and arranged letter. Footsteps obscured. He planted suspicion
upon Charles Becksley, the easy escapegoat. The police followed gladly,
for it is always to have the obvious villain. But
the details em e s amos. They betrayed him. Inspector
Grave snapped what details? Poart raised a finger fiercely the
ring Billino would not leave it behind, nor would a
love us steal it. Only one man could possess it,
the man she returned it to. Secondly the fragment of letter,
a forgery coppied clumsily in another's hand. And thirdly the church.
Twice the notes led us there because there lies the truth.
I visited last night with Hastings in the crept, concealed
behind stone, we found a shallow grave, and within it,
Porat paused his voice solemn lay Alina Whitcomb. A cry
broke from Lady wyckcamb Sir Bennydict's staggered. Even Inspector Graves
Blanche Powart's voice cut through the shock. The body bore
no mark of poison, no trace of abduction. It bore
the mark of violence, the force of a man's hand.
And beside her lay the velvet case of the ring.
All eyes turned to Captain Desmond. His face, once composed,
was now ravaged by fear and rage. It is lies,
he burst out, he fabricates. You cannot prove it was I.
She was hysterical, she fled, She part stepped closer his
eyes merciless, enough, mon Capitaine, you betray yourself. Only you
knew she was in the crypt. Only you could replace
the case in haste. Your uniform, your gloves, your boots,
they show the marks of earth disturbed, and more than
all your words betray you. You speak of her hysteria,
of her flight, But no one mentioned those things until Yozov.
Did they come from your own memory of that night?
This men's mouth opened close, then twisted in fury. She
was mine, he shouted, his voice breaking. She swore herself
to me. She could not abandon me like a coward.
I would not allow it. The room erupted in horror.
Lady Wickham sobbed, Sir Bennedicet buried his face in his hands.
It Spector Grays moved forward grimly. That will do, Captain,
you'll answer for this. Poor Art exhaled slowly, his eyes softening.
It is finished justice. She is sometimes cruel, but always necessary.
Hastings shaken, whispered, he knew all along. Parart Porat gave
a faint smile. Not all monomy, but enough the little
gray cells they arranged the pattern. Once the rain, the church,
and the letter were seen together, the truth became inevitable.
There could be no other. Silence fell heavy in a library,
broken only by lady What comes weeping. Poarat, ever delicate,
inclined his head respectfully. Lina was a young woman caught
between duty and desire. Let us remember her not for
this tragedy, but for her courage in seeking freedom. Mischy
rest now in peace. With that, Powat turned, adjusting his
cuffs and made for the door. Hastings followed, knowing well
the case would be spoken of in malcom for years
to come. For Porat, it was another triumph of logic
in psychology. For the family, it was the bitter truth,
and for the village it was a tale that would
never quite lose its shatter. With that, Poat turned, adjusting
his cuffs and made for the door. Hastings followed, knowing
well the case would be spoken of in Malocombe for
years to come. For poor Art, it was another triumph
of logic in psychology. For the family, it was the
bitter truth, and for the village it was a tale
that would never quite lose a shadow. But mysteries, as
Pois often reminded, hastings never truly end. For in every village,
in every household, there are secrets yet and told, and
that is the end. Thank you for listening, and I
will see you in the next one.