In the crisp winter of 1955, St. Mary Mead prepares for a festive but unusually tense Christmas. The grand Fairweather Estate has been reopened for the first time in years, now under the management of Colonel Geoffrey Fairweather, a distinguished but secretive veteran who invites the entire village to a special Christmas Eve gala. Miss Jane Marple, ever observant and gently curious, notices at once the uneasy atmosphere surrounding the family’s sudden return. Rumors swirl of a hidden inheritance, long-standing resentments, and a mysterious will that was never publicly read.

On the night of the gala, the estate dazzles with candlelight, music, and village chatter, yet beneath the warmth lies a crackling undercurrent of old grievances. Miss Marple quietly watches the interactions: hushed arguments in the corridor, a tense toast between siblings, and a stranger claiming to be a distant cousin whose name no one recognizes. When a violent snowstorm traps all the guests inside the estate, the evening takes a darker turn.

Just before midnight, a scream shatters the festive mood. Colonel Fairweather is found dead in his study, the doors locked from the inside and a single set of footprints leading only to the window — which remains firmly shut. Panic ripples through the estate as the villagers realize they are trapped with a killer. Inspector Craythorne arrives from a nearby town but is immediately out of his depth; he reluctantly turns to Miss Marple for help, knowing her quiet insight has solved more puzzles than his entire force.

As the investigation unfolds, Miss Marple interviews each guest with her gentle, disarming manner. She uncovers a tangle of motives: financial desperation, jealousy, wartime secrets, and a love affair long concealed. The missing will becomes central to the case, suggesting that the Colonel’s death was no spontaneous act but a carefully orchestrated plan.

In a tense drawing-room reveal on Christmas morning, Miss Marple lays out the clues: the misaligned candlewax, the smudged ink on the ledger, the peculiar pattern of the footprints, and the overheard lullaby that revealed the perpetrator’s presence at a crucial moment. Piece by piece, she reconstructs the crime, exposing the killer — someone no one suspected, whose motive lay buried in decades of resentment and fear.

With the murderer apprehended and the storm finally passing, the village breathes again. Miss Marple returns to her cozy cottage, reflecting with quiet sadness on human frailty but comforted by the renewed sense of peace in St. Mary Mead, just in time for Christmas Day.