The men murmured agreement and stepped forward, crowding Daniel. Pray he didn’t have to reach for the pistol in the waistband at the back of his trousers.

“You, sir, stir up trouble where there was none, and you inflame and agitate rather than help. I ask you men again, disperse. Or if you wish to gather, you must do it elsewhere. This is a crime area, under investigation by the authority of your local magistrate and in cooperation with the officers of Bow Street. Those who choose not to leave the area will be arrested for trespassing.”

Though how he would arrest twenty men, he didn’t know. But he wouldn’t go quietly. He must preserve what evidence remained, and he must stand for the rule of law.

“What is all this?” An elderly, gentle voice cut through the tension. “If you men desire to congregate, I wish you would do so in my church. The doors are always open for worship and prayer.” A white-haired vicar made his way to Daniel’s side. “I know you are fearful, gentlemen, and you are looking for someone to blame, but a dead man and a detective from the city are poor choices. We will survive this mishap, we will come to the aid of those in need, and we will do so without agitation from outsiders. We have always taken care of our own in this village, and now will be no exception. If you have needs while the mill is rebuilt, make them known at the church. That is one of the reasons the church exists.”

His face became stern, and he stared at Trotter. “Sir, I do not know you, but you are surplus to requirements. I suggest you take your radical ideas elsewhere and leave the good men of Hammersmith alone.”

Though nearly a foot shorter than Daniel, the vicar’s words had a strong effect upon his listeners. They trickled away in twos and threes, heads bent, shuffling up the street until only a handful remained. Even Trotter climbed from his perch, and with a huff, straightened his cravat, tugged on the bottom of his waistcoat, and stalked away with his nose in the air.

A large man with a red face and impressive whiskers stood his ground, legs braced, a wheel spoke in his beefy hands.

“George, you were told to go,” the preacher reminded him.

“Go? Where? I got no job now.” He waved the wooden spoke at the mill. “How can I go home to my little ’uns and say I have no bread for ’em and no money to get any?”

“And you believe shouting in the street will change that?”

“It’s better than getting drunk down the pub.”

“Marginally, I suppose, but both are futile. If you turn your energies to helping this young man find out who killed your employer, you will be that much closer to the mill being repaired and reopened.”