It was the third Friday of February 1894 when Sir Henley Marsh, surgeon of the Marylebone Hospital, came to us in a state of bewildered honour.
"Mrs Audrey Lyle, Mr Holmes, twenty-eight years of age, well-favoured, in for a routine procedure of the throat. The chloroform was administered by my anaesthetist, Mr Boon - a careful man of twelve years' practice. The dose was correct; the rate of administration was correct; the patient went under and did not return. The husband threatens an action; the apothecary speaks of a substitute compound; my anaesthetist's reputation is at stake. I cannot account for it."
We took a hansom to Marylebone. On the rank outside the hospital a thin dark-green four-wheeler waited, its driver a heavy-shouldered man with a port-wine stain on his left temple and a hat with a green band; he touched his whip-handle to the brim as we descended. The hospital's surgical theatre was small and white-tiled; the chloroform-bottle still upon the dresser; Mrs Lyle's husband, a respectable City clerk of thirty-five, in the waiting-room with a young child upon his knee.