It was the list of names he had given me to copy three days before, the list of Weathered’s patients who had given numbers under which, as we had learned since from Violet, they could write to him. And at the bottom of the list there stood, “Mrs. Baker, 35.”
To me it looked like proof conclusive. This was Weathered’s latest victim, to all appearance, and in making her his enemy he had at last met his match. I remembered the waiter’s description of her at the dance in her savage dress and savage ornaments, as though she meant by her attire to signify that she was bent on vengeance. And now we knew that she was in possession of a deadly drug which could be given without fear of detection, as she might well suppose if her brother had not told her of his dealings with the great expert. Gerard had testified to her showing a repugnance for Weathered that looked like hatred. The case appeared to be complete.
Something like this I said to Tarleton, carried away by my delight at the thought that I had now no more to dread. But he did not show himself altogether satisfied.
“There is such a thing as having too complete a case,” he remarked in a meditative voice. “Even if we are right in believing that we have found the Leopardess, as Gerard called her, we have still to prove that she murdered Weathered. The waiter himself told us that she left early, hours before he showed any symptoms of being poisoned. My instinct tells me that there is something in this business that I don’t yet know. There is no crime so difficult to detect as one in which a woman is concerned. In this case I find myself surrounded by women, and every woman is an enigma to the wisest man.—Now listen to this.”
He took out another paper from his pocket, and read aloud from it.
“This is the report of the Inspector. He has had men engaged in looking up all the names on that list, and the moment it struck me that Armstrong’s executrix might be the Mrs. Baker who figures there, I asked Charles to let me know what his man had found out. Here is what he writes: ‘Widow with independent means. Perfectly respectable. Favourably known to local tradesmen. Keeps two servants. Interested in scientific movements. Sister of well-known traveller. Visits freely in Chelsea. Has friends among literary men and artists. Also fond of animals, cats and birds. Not known to suffer from any serious form of illness. Has been attended by local doctor for small ailments. No connection can be traced with Weathered.’—That is the police report.”
It was a deeply disappointing one to me. My vision of the enraged woman in her leopard costume engaged in a murderous plot against a sinister blackmailer faded as I listened. This harmless, middle-aged woman, living quietly on her income in a good neighbourhood, and amusing herself with animal pets and such artistic and intellectual society as was within her reach, failed altogether to come up to the portrait my imagination had drawn.
Tarleton folded up the report and replaced it in his pocket. “You and I will call on this lady presently, and see if we can find out something more.”
I wondered what we should find. I was wondering still when the physician’s car drew up before a house in the pleasant little square named after Chelsea’s most famous resident since the time of Sir Thomas More. The house was only distinguished from its neighbours by an air of dinginess which seemed due to neglect. In spite of the two servants kept by the owner or tenant, there was a lack of neatness both outside and inside. The steps looked in need of scrubbing, and the paint on the door was disfigured with blisters. The door was opened to Tarleton’s vigorous knock and ring by a housemaid who had evidently not changed her dress since her morning’s work was done, and the hall into which we passed was more like an ill-kept lumber-room than the ordinary entrance to a lady’s house.
The explorer had evidently left many treasures picked up on his travels which his sister had taken no great pains to arrange to the best advantage. Savage weapons of various kinds were nailed up anyhow on the walls, one hiding another. Horns of different strange animals, either deer or oxen, surmounted such doors as we could see. Our feet were entangled in a draggled buffalo skin spread on the floor. The maiden who let us in took no notice of our trouble in following her, and offered no apology for the untidiness of the surroundings. She led the way upstairs to the first landing and threw open the door of a front room which was no doubt dignified with the title of drawing-room.