Mrs. Jeffries in the Nick of Time by Emily Brightwell

suppose it does. Still, now that he’s dead, none of us know what’s goin’ to happen.”
    The train slowed as it went through Royal Oak station and Wiggins had to decide if he ought to continue pursuing her. They’d be coming into Paddington in five minutes. “I’ve been ever so rude, miss. My name is John King.”
    “I’m Rachel Morgan.” She smiled self-consciously. “I’m the upstairs maid.”
    He bobbed his head politely and said, “Miss Morgan, if I might make so bold, I’d be pleased if you’d have a cup of tea with me when we get to Paddington station. There’s a very respectable café just off the platform.”
    “Don’t you need to get to your interview?”
    “It’s not until later,” he replied. “Truth is, that lodgin’ house in Ealing isn’t very friendly. You’re about the first person I’ve met that’s talked to me right and proper.” Rachel Morgan worked in the dead man’s house, and you didn’t get much closer than that.
    “I know what you mean,” she replied softly. “Sometimes I feel the same way even though I’m in a house filled with people. I’d be pleased to have a cup of tea with you, Mr. King.”
     
    “I was surprised to hear you’d retired,” Hatchet said to his old friend, Emery Richards. They were sitting in a window table at Corribani’s Coffee House just off Bond Street. “But luckily, Daisy recognized me when I called at the Farringdon house to see you and gave me your new address. She said to give you her regards. I think they miss you.”
    Emery Richards was a small, slender man about the same age as Hatchet. He had a full head of iron gray hair, piercing blue eyes, and a long, straight nose. “Of course they do.” He laughed. “I used to turn a blind eye to all their shenanigans. Truth of the matter is, I ought to have retired years ago. God knows I could have afforded it, but without a family or much else to keep me occupied, I thought I’d be bored.”
    “And are you bored?” Hatchet watched his old friend carefully, wanting to reassure himself that Emery was doing as well as he claimed. If he needed money, Hatchet would make sure he got it without damaging his pride.
    He and Emery shared a long and interesting history. Years earlier when both of them had had more courage than brains, they’d been young, wild, thirsting for adventure, and very stupid. But despite their idiocy, they’d survived, seen quite a bit of the world, albeit on different continents for the most part, and then each of them had ended up as butlers. Emery had worked at a household that had figured prominently in one of the inspector’s more recent cases.
    “Not in the least.” Emery gave him a knowing smile. “I’m fine, Hatchet. Despite the wild excesses of my youth, I’d saved my wages since returning to England and I’ve invested them prudently. When I left the Farringdons’, I bought a nice little house just off Shepherds Bush. I’ve got lodgers and they give me a good bit of company.”
    “But what do you do with your time?” Hatchet asked curiously. He knew that at some point in his life, he might very well end up much like his friend.
    Emery picked up his coffee cup and blew gently on the hot liquid. “I spend a lot of time reading and I help serve meals to the poor at St. Matthew’s every Tuesday and Thursday lunchtime. As a matter of fact, I’m due there soon, so you’d best start asking your questions.”
    Emery had spent the last twenty years working for the rich and well connected in London. Always one to keep his eyes and ears open, he was an excellent source of information.
    “Have you heard of a man named Francis Humphreys?” Hatchet sipped his coffee.
    “You mean the man that was shot?”
    “Yes. Inspector Witherspoon got the case,” Hatchet replied. He wasn’t in the least concerned that Emery knew about his activities. He was a man who could be trusted. He’d used him as a source on a half dozen of the inspector’s previous