Paul Harley inspected the plates, a set of fine old Derby ware, and gazed meditatively at the silver ladle. “Did the maid, Jones, handle any of these?” he asked.
“No, sir”—emphatically. “She was preparing to bring the trout from the kitchen.”
“But I saw her in the room.”
“She had brought in the fish plates, a sauce boat, and two toast racks, sir. She put them here, on the sideboard. But they were never brought to the table.”
“H’m. Has Jones left?”
“Yes, sir. She was under notice. But after her rudeness, Mrs. Howett packed her off right away. She left the very next day after poor Sir Charles died.”
“Where has she gone?”
“To a married sister, I believe, until she finds a new job. Mrs. Howett has the address.”
At this moment Mrs. Howett entered, bearing a tablecloth and a number of serviettes.
“This was the cloth,” she said, spreading it out, “but which of the serviettes were used I cannot say.”