‘When we called at Dr McWhirter’s consulting rooms, the place was ablaze. There was no chance of recovering any files. The good thing is that if the relatives of the ladies want them to be re-committed somewhere, they will need to apply to me first. A warrant is out for McWhirter’s arrest and the ports are being watched.’

He turned his grey gaze on the earl and countess. ‘Your daughter is very lucky that she has friends such as Captain Cathcart and Miss Levine or you might never have seen your daughter again.’

‘Tish!’ protested the earl. ‘We were going to call in a few days’ time. We would have found out what was up.’

‘You would have been told your daughter’s condition had deteriorated. You might have been allowed to see her. She might have been heavily drugged, so full of opium, say, that she would look as if her wits had gone. Alarmed, you would press for further treatment, and so it would go on.’

‘It’s a wicked world,’ said Lady Polly, fanning herself so vigorously that little feathers escaped from her ostrich fan and floated in the air.

‘Keep a good watch on your daughter,’ urged Kerridge. ‘McWhirter may still be in the country and he may want vengeance.’

Miss Jubbles felt her heart was broken and her mother was no comfort. Her mother, incensed that her daughter had been the magnet that had drawn Mr Jones to the house so often, told her it was all her own fault.

‘How could you even imagine that a man of the captain’s class and age would look at you?’ she jeered.

So, at the same time as Kerridge was leaving the earl’s home, Miss Jubbles put on her coat and hat and went out to get away from the sound of her mother’s voice.

There was a warm light spilling out from the rear premises of the bakery. Mr Jones would be busy baking bread and rolls.

The night was chilly and a greasy drizzle was falling. Drawn by the smell of baking bread, Miss Jubbles went round to the back of the bakery and knocked on the door.

Mr Jones opened it. The light shone out from the open door and lit up Miss Jubbles’s tear-stained face.

‘Whatever’s the matter!’ he exclaimed. ‘Come in. I was just about to take a break.’

Dora averted her eyes. Mr Jones was dressed in a vest and old trousers. Sensing her embarrassment, he took down a white coat from a peg by the door and put it on. ‘Come in,’ he repeated. ‘I’ve some nice Chelsea buns, and we can have tea.’

Miss Jubbles edged her way cautiously in. There were racks of loaves, rolls and buns sending out a sweet smell.

‘George,’ said Mr Jones to his assistant, ‘make tea. And bring a couple of Chelsea buns. We’ll be in the parlour. Come with me, Miss Jubbles.’