Lady Blimley and Sir Wilfred were enjoying a splendid breakfast - tea steeped to perfection and served in the finest bone china, biscuits delicately dusted with edible gold flakes, and an extravagant spread of rich, succulent ostrich eggs, paired with high-quality back bacon carved from wine-fed pigs of Bavaria. The morning sun filtered gently through the lace curtains of their Victorian estate, dappling the marble table with a golden glow.

As Lady Blimley daintily bit into a scone topped with rose-petal jam and clotted cream, Sir Wilfred lifted the morning edition of The Dandridge Times, brought to him precisely at 8:00 a.m. by the butler, Giles.

But scarcely had he unfolded the crisp paper when his composure shattered. He spat his tea in a violent jet across the room, his china cup clattering to the floor and shattering into porcelain shards.

"Wilfred!" Lady Blimley exclaimed, dropping her scone. "What has overtaken you? You look as though the very Devil himself were dancing a jig in your soul!"

With trembling hands and an ashen face, Sir Wilfred slowly handed her the paper. "Read it," he whispered hoarsely.

Lady Blimley adjusted her lorgnette and scanned the front page. The headline blared:

"THE CHATTY FELINE REVEALS: LORD LEXOR A FRAUD!"

The article, penned by an anonymous author, accused their dear friend and neighbor, Lord Lexor, of living under false pretenses. According to the expos?, "Lord Lexor" was not a nobleman at all but a mere servant named John Smith, caretaker of the estate owned by Sir Hemington - a war general currently away fighting for the British Empire. During Sir Hemington's absence, Smith had assumed his master's identity and indulged in the luxuries of aristocracy.

Shaken, the couple rushed to the window that overlooked Lord Lexor's grand estate. There, they witnessed two constables dragging a portly, flustered man in velvet robes through the rose garden. "I am Lord Lexor!" he cried. "I deserve this life!"

"Nice try, Mr. Smith," one of the officers responded dryly. "But the magistrate has evidence aplenty."

That evening, Sir Wilfred and Lady Blimley broke open the rarest of spirits - an 1822 cognac reserved for coronations - and sat in solemn silence. The implications were chilling. The Chatty Feline knew secrets. Dangerous secrets. And if Lord Lexor had fallen, who would be next?

The answer came the very next day.

"DEAREST MOTHER OR DEAREST MONSTER?" the headline read.

This time, the subject was Madame Marabelle, a beloved fixture of tea socials and charity galas. The article alleged that her daughter, Adelie, had been locked away in the cellar for five years, punished for her desire to marry a commoner - a lowly solicitor. She was starved, denied sanitation, and forbidden all human contact save for her cruel mother.

Lady Blimley fainted upon reading the piece, while Sir Wilfred, too horrified to speak, rushed to prepare the motorcar. They arrived at Madame Marabelle's estate to find a crowd gathered at the gates. Reporters shouted questions. Onlookers cried out in horror. A team of officers escorted a wild-eyed Madame Marabelle in handcuffs, screaming, "She would have ruined our lineage! That man is a vulture!"

Behind her, Adelie, gaunt and barely clothed, was helped into an ambulance by two nurses. The man by her side held her trembling hand and whispered words of comfort.

The Blimleys drove home in silence.

The following day brought yet another social implosion.

"THE MAJOR WHO NEVER MARCHED", the article declared.

Major Barfield - regaled for heroics in Pakistan, celebrated in bronze at the town square - was exposed as a desk clerk who never left the base camp. He had filed paperwork while others fought. His medals were bought. His stories were lies.

The townsfolk, incensed, tore down his statue. Major Barfield was found sobbing beneath the plinth, clutching a whiskey bottle, a hollow man shattered by truth.

The scandals became relentless. Every morning delivered a new social death: bankruptcies, betrayals, secret affairs, illegitimate children, forged titles, even poisonings - all dredged up by the mysterious and unstoppable Chatty Feline. The paper's circulation spread beyond the region, captivating readers across England. The mystery of the anonymous writer became the nation's obsession.

But for the Blimleys, each day was torment.

They stopped hosting dinners. They avoided the country club. Their faces grew pale and haggard. They spoke only in whispers. They feared their turn would come - and they were right to fear it.

For the writer was none other than Tobermory, the infamous talking cat once owned by eccentric scientist Professor Appin. Believed to have perished under suspicious circumstances, Tobermory had in truth faked his death after overhearing the Blimleys plot to poison him with tainted fish.

With help from a similar-looking alley cat, Tobermory staged his own demise. He escaped to an abandoned church, where he met Tom the Mute, a homeless man who could neither speak nor write but had a heart of gold. When a toppled pillar revealed a hidden treasure beneath the altar - gold and jewels hidden since the Reformation - Tobermory used the riches to start a printing press. With Tom as his silent partner and decoy "editor," The Chatty Feline was born.

It was not merely a newspaper. It was vengeance.

Every issue struck down those who had mocked, dismissed, or humiliated Professor Appin and Tobermory. And now, only Sir Wilfred and Lady Blimley remained.

Their fear consumed them. They could not eat. They could not sleep. Their once-rosy complexions faded into a cadaverous pallor. Their auburn hair turned ashen. Their laughter died. They became ghosts wandering their own mansion.

Then, the morning came. A knock at the door. Giles the butler, white-faced and silent, delivered the paper.

The Blimleys sat in their drawing room, shaking, eyes sunken. Together, they unfolded the newspaper.

Silence.

"NO NEWS TODAY," the headline read. "No scandal to report. Nothing to reveal."

They stared, mouths agape. For a moment, disbelief. Then confusion. Then - collapse.

The anticipation had been too great. The relief too sudden. The stress of not being scandalized, after weeks of fearing the worst, proved fatal. Sir Wilfred's heart gave out first. Lady Blimley followed seconds later, collapsing onto his chest.

Moments later, a shadow slinked into the room.

Tobermory, sleek and regal, sat before the bodies. He licked his paw, looked at the newspaper, then at the corpses.

"Revenge," he purred, "is best served with scandal, stress? and a generous dash of irony."

And with that, he vanished into the dawn.