Miss Jubbles had moved out that very Sunday morning. Mrs Jubbles sat alone, all her hatred turned against Lady Rose Summer. It was that society bitch who had turned the captain against her Dora. If it had not been for her, Dora would never have stooped so low as to marry a mere baker. In her choler, Mrs Jubbles forgot that she had entertained hopes of marrying Mr Jones herself.

And then her anger left her as she saw a plan of action. She would take a hansom down to the Daily Mail offices in Fleet Street and tell them the whole story about how Lady Rose had been working as a common typist.

She summoned Elsie, the maid of all work, to help her dress in her best. Despite the warmth of the day, she put on her squirrel fur coat and her new lavender dogskin gloves.

At the newspaper’s front desk, she only told them that she had a society scandal to tell the editor. She was told to take a seat.

Mrs Jubbles waited. It was very warm. She opened her coat and saw to her dismay that there was a milk stain on the front of her best gown and hurriedly closed it again.

At last she was ushered up. The news-room seemed to be hectic with excitement. Mrs Jubbles did not know that one of the villagers had wired the paper about the murder at Farthings.

She was escorted in to see the editor. ‘I believe you have a story for us.’

‘How much?’ she demanded.

‘It depends what your story is . . . Mrs Jubbles,’ added the editor, consulting a slip of paper with her name on it which had been sent up from the front desk. ‘May we offer you some tea and may I take your coat?’

‘I would like tea, yes, but I’ll keep my coat on.’

The sun was streaming in through the windows of the office. Sweat began to trickle down Mrs Jubbles’s face.

The editor waited until tea was brought in and then said, ‘Now, what’s all this about?’

‘It’s about that . . . that . . .’ Mrs Jubbles clutched her throat.

‘Madam, I fear the heart is making you ill. Do let me take your coat.’

‘No, no. It’s that awful girl. My daughter, oh, my daughter.’

And unconsciously echoing Shylock, Mrs Jubbles suffered a massive heart attack and fell from her chair and then lay as dead as the animals which had gone into the making of her best fur coat.

‘Well, that’s that,’ sighed Kerridge when the last interview was over. ‘Unless the servants tell Garret, who’s interviewing them, something interesting, we’re no further forward. All the guests and Lady Glensheil claim they were fast asleep. No one ordered a bottle of champagne. No syringe found in the rooms anywhere. Maybe Cathcart or Lady Rose can come up with something.’