Earnshaw frowned as Rhynwick climbed over a stack of toppled bins, his coattails flying out. “What are you doing, Inspector Swann? Who are these men?”

This fellow blustered like they were trespassing and he was the owner. “Mr. Earnshaw, this is Inspector Beck from Bow Street. I believe you’ve met Mr. Hoffman, the engineer who has been checking the building for safety, and this is Mr. Davies.”

“He’s a scientist who is going to tell us where the explosion originated and its cause,” Hoffman said.

“How can he know that? The place nearly perished in a fire.” Earnshaw made shooing motions, as if he could rid the mill of the scientist’s presence.

Rhynwick spoke from the far side of a large chute. “I assure you, sir, I have already determined the origin of the blast.” He went back to poking, in perpetual motion.

“Would you care to enlighten us?” Hoffman asked.

“The hallway between the warehouse and the mill itself. The blast originated outside the offices.” Again his voice came as if disembodied, for he was out of sight.

“How could you know that? You were not here,” Earnshaw said.

Rhynwick poked his head up. A streak of soot decorated his cheek, but his eyes were as bright as polished silver. “It’s quite obvious for anyone who will look.”

“Who is this child? And why should we consider what he thinks? The explosion was the work of anarchists, rousing the workers to shut down the mill before the improvements could be made. Those responsible are probably gathered at the gate outside this very minute.” Earnshaw pointed to the eastern wall. “There have been rumblings for weeks that they planned some action. Mr. Coombe worried there would be trouble, and trouble there was.”

“No.”

“I beg your pardon.” Earnshaw turned to Rhynwick.

“I said no. Your assumptions about the explosion are incorrect.” The scientist passed by them without looking, and they followed in his wake.

“Why don’t you tell us what you’ve deduced, Rhyn?” Hoffman asked.

“The blast originated here. In this passage, traveling into both the warehouse, where it dissipated quickly by blowing the wagon doors open, and into the working floor of the mill, where it expended energy upward.”

“Preposterous,” Earnshaw said. “I was here when it happened, and the blast came from the milling room.”

Rhynwick’s eyes swiveled toward the accountant, but they did not linger. “It is quite obvious. Look at the blast patterns. They travel in both directions from this point.” He raised a slender, soot-covered finger, tracing the lines that radiated outward from the wall opposite Mr. Montgomery’s office door.

“That’s where two men were shoveling up a flour spill. They had toppled a load they were trundling to the warehouse.” Daniel toed a twisted bit of metal. “They were thrown against the wall here. This is all that is left of their cart.”

“Yes, yes, that explains it.” Rhynwick snapped his fingers. “Shoveling spilled flour.”