Miss Marple held up her knitting and looked at it critically. According to the pattern she had reached the armhole shaping, but she wasn’t sure if it would be long enough. She was knitting a winter jumper for her goddaughter’s young son in a cheerful red, which made a pleasant change from the normally dull, but practical, colours she used. However, the little boy was quite tall for his age, so she decided to add another inch, for the one thing which could guaranteed, was that he would continue to grow.

Having resolved that problem, she continued to knit. Her goddaughter had asked how long it would take her to knit the jumper, adding that when it was finished, they would come and take her out for lunch. Miss Marple hadn’t been sure; it all depended on her mood. Some evenings she felt like knitting, others she was drawn to a crossword puzzle or Griselda had lent her jigsaw, and then there were evenings when she happily lost herself in a book. The most productive evenings, where knitting was concerned, was when there was a long concert on the radio, and she would happily listen whilst her knitting needles clicked away.

Abruptly, she stopped knitting. She had suddenly realised what had been niggling her when she’d come back from the harvest supper. It wasn’t the longing looks that Jenny Bradshaw had been making at Roger Dixon after all; she was just a silly girl who would soon get over her infatuation and see the man for who he really was. No, it was Amanda Rothman, who really shouldn’t have been there. And if that was the case…

Miss Marple quickly finished her row - no point in risking losing stitches by stopping midway - and stood up. She had a telephone call to make. It might be a long shot, but it certainly made sense of one or two things which had happened recently.