It was the third week of July, and the morning the trustees of the East End Charity Hospital sent a note round to Baker Street, the heat in Whitechapel was already oppressive at half past nine.
"Their auditor, Mr Holmes," Holmes said, passing me the letter, "finds the meat-supplier's accounts running thirty pounds in excess of any reasonable consumption. They suspect a steward, a supplier, an almoner, and a deputy. They will not bring in the police because the hospital cannot bear the scandal."
We took a hansom to the Mile End Road and were met at the gate by Mr Crowther, the almoner - a stout, earnest man who could scarcely set a sentence down without a defence of one or other of his colleagues. He led us up the stair towards the steward's office above the dispensary. A clerk in a threadbare dark suit passed us on the stair as we went up, a brown leather portfolio under his arm and his left middle finger stained as black as printer's ink; he did not look up. "Mr Pell, the steward, has kept the meat-account these eight years," said Mr Crowther earnestly. "I will swear before any tribunal he has not laid a finger upon the trustees' money."
Holmes inclined his head. "That, sir, is precisely what we shall come to determine."