She was all incoherent delight and pleasure at seeing Sir Henry, and became quite flustered when introduced to the Chief Constable and Detective-Inspector Craddock.

“But really, Sir Henry, how fortunate … how very fortunate. So long since I have seen you … Yes, my rheumatism. Very bad of late. Of course I couldn’t have afforded this hotel (really fantastic what they charge nowadays) but Raymond—my nephew, Raymond West, you may remember him—”

“Everyone knows his name.”

“Yes, the dear boy has been so successful with his clever books—he prides himself upon never writing about anything pleasant. The dear boy insisted on paying all my expenses. And his dear wife is making a name for herself too, as an artist. Mostly jugs of dying flowers and broken combs on windowsills. I never dare tell her, but I still admire Blair Leighton and Alma Tadema. Oh, but I’m chattering. And the Chief Constable himself—indeed I never expected—so afraid I shall be taking up his time—”

“Completely ga-ga,” thought the disgusted Detective-Inspector Craddock.

“Come into the Manager’s private room,” said Rydesdale. “We can talk better there.”

When Miss Marple had been disentangled from her wool, and her spare knitting pins collected, she accompanied them, fluttering and protesting, to Mr. Rowlandson’s comfortable sitting-room.

“Now, Miss Marple, let’s hear what you have to tell us,” said the Chief Constable.

Miss Marple came to the point with unexpected brevity.

“It was a cheque,” she said. “He altered it.”

“He?”

“The young man at the desk here, the one who is supposed to have staged that hold-up and shot himself.”

“He altered a cheque, you say?”

Miss Marple nodded.

“Yes. I have it here.” She extracted it from her bag and laid it on the table. “It came this morning with my others from the Bank. You can see, it was for seven pounds, and he altered it to seventeen. A stroke in front of the 7, and teen added after the word seven with a nice artistic little blot just blurring the whole word. Really very nicely done. A certain amount of practice, I should say. It’s the same ink, because I wrote the cheque actually at the desk. I should think he’d done it quite often before, wouldn’t you?”

“He picked the wrong person to do it to, this time,” remarked Sir Henry.

Miss Marple nodded agreement.

“Yes. I’m afraid he would never have gone very far in crime. I was quite the wrong person. Some busy young married woman, or some girl having a love affair—that’s the kind who write cheques for all sorts of different sums and don’t really look through their passbooks carefully. But an old woman who has to be careful of the pennies, and who has formed habits—that’s quite the wrong person to choose. Seventeen pounds is a sum I never write a cheque for. Twenty pounds, a round sum, for the monthly wages and books. And as for my personal expenditure, I usually cash seven—it used to be five, but everything has gone up so.”