I knelt carefully in the dirty straw. The carthorse in the stall opposite seemed placid now, but it would be better to move the patient away if we could do it safely. "All right, let's have a look," I said, hoping not too many ribs had been broken, but the man only groaned and curled tighter. "What's his name?" I asked the groom who had summoned me from my surgery.

"He said it was Bill," came the reply, as cold as the ring of metal that suddenly rested against the back of my neck. "But I think it's Sherlock Holmes."