He went on, and it seemed with each word the crowd grew more tense. In glimpses, Juliette caught sight of Finch, whose face, in spite of the cold, gleamed with sweat. He swayed, arms raised, imploring the people with impassioned pleas.

And they responded. As he continued, they packed closer and closer, and she remembered the way he had held forth at her parents’ breakfast more than a fortnight ago, expounding his views and drawing every eye in the room.

He had the same power over a crowded warehouse, but it seemed magnified here. These people were afraid, and he stirred those fears. These people were angry, and he fanned the flames of their anger. These people were ready to act, and he put himself in a position to lead them.

Bertie shifted, his fingers opening and closing. A furrow marked his brow, and he pulled his hat lower. Glancing from side to side, he moved away from her, but when she went to follow, he waved her to stay. Her eyes followed him as he crossed in front of her and made his way toward where they had come in. No one else seemed to notice, being fixated on the speaker.

To her right, a pair of men spoke beneath the tenor of Mr. Finch. “Do you think he done it? Or had someone do it? He was that mad, calling for someone to take care of Montgomery before he destroyed the lives of the workers. Do you think Finch killed him?”

“Dunno, but it served Montgomery right, getting killed. He was about to throw half his workers out on the cobbles without so much as a fare-thee-well. Why do they want to change things? We spend our whole lives learning a trade, and some rich toff can wipe it away on a whim? I say we stop them. And if it takes putting a few of them in the dirt, so be it. Better them quick than us slow and starving.”

One elbowed the other, and they stopped talking, but Juliette was aghast. They thought Mr. Montgomery deserved murder? And they were ready to answer the call if more violence was asked? They even suspected Mr. Finch of killing Agatha’s father.

Uncle Bertie had shown her the report on the explosion, which was thought to have been caused by the ignition of flour dust rather than an anarchist’s bomb, but Mr. Montgomery had been shot before the blast.

Had Finch killed him, or had him killed, to stop the renovations and improvements to the mill? Before tonight she would not have thought anyone would kill over industrial progress, but looking at Jasper Finch right now, urging this crowd to become a lawless mob, she believed him capable of anything.