“Montgomery was warned. He was told not to bring in that new equipment from American mills. Yet you stood right here not a month ago while the crates were unloaded from the barge.” The spokesman pointed toward the river. “He’s lucky you didn’t tip them in the drink right then, bringing in these modern machines and doing men out of their livelihoods. You’ve spent your whole lives as millers, learning the trade, keeping the traditions alive, and for what? So a rich man who never bent his back to a shovel or a grain sack could rip your way of life from your grasp?”

A rabble-rouser with nothing better to do than foment trouble.

Daniel had heard enough. He drew his truncheon from his belt and looped the strap around his wrist. “Gentlemen, you need to disperse.” He raised the truncheon for all to see. “I am an investigator of the Bow Street Magistrate’s Court. This area is under investigation, and you cannot congregate here.”

“You have no authority here. This is Hammersmith, not London.” The shout had come from the back.

Aware that he was one man against twenty-odd, Daniel held his ground. He must show no fear, no weakness, else they would pounce. They could not be allowed to do further damage to the mill, nor could he allow them to compromise any evidence that may remain. Men in mobs could be driven to do things no man alone would contemplate.

“You know nothing of these men’s troubles,” the spokesman shouted. “They’ve no work now, no livelihoods or ways to care for their wives and children and old mothers. And who’s to blame? Montgomery!”

Another cheer of agreement.

“If such is the case, then he paid a hefty price.” Daniel threaded his way through the men until he stood beside the barrel the spokesman perched upon. “He was murdered, and the man who killed him is walking free. There is nothing to be gained by demonstrating now.”

With Rosebreen’s confirmation of cause of death, there was no longer any reason to keep the truth hidden. He gauged the response to his declaration. No one seemed shocked at the pronouncement of murder. Either they had already heard, or they had suspected from the start.

The rabble-rouser shook his head. “This mill will be rebuilt either by the Montgomery family or by a new owner, and woe to the rebuilder who insists upon changing the way these men have milled flour here for a thousand years.”

“You keep saying these men. Are you not a miller by trade?” Daniel asked, stepping back until he felt the stone wall behind him. He eyed the crowd. He did not want one of these men to get behind him.

“I’ve come to help them. Woodrow Trotter’s my name, and I fight for the laborer.”