WE KEPT a brisk pace, each step sending a jolt up through my body. Somehow, nobody questioned our bizarre little parade. I with my limp, hatless, Sherlock stiff and alert, Magpie in his rags, all but masked, and the maid between us, her clothes torn, her face battered and bruised. People looked, but only briefly. Eyes took us in and then slid away, faces carefully blank or else twisting with the faintest hint of discomfort and disgust. Flashes of outrage as groups parted or crossed streets to avoid us. Where I saw pity, it was quickly suppressed, replaced by embarrassment. Those who did notice that something was wrong didn’t know what to do about it. There was, as ever, the assumption that someone else would do something. Someone else would call for help. Someone else would ask what had ha
