Sims indicated the bottles. “These are your labels?”

“Right, sir. Then I placed each bottle in a straw-lined crate and put the crate into a bomb box.”

“A bomb box?” the prosecutor asked, widening his eyes dramatically. “Please tell the jury what you mean by that term.”

“It’s a box made of special, heavy-duty metal, designed to contain a possible explosion. The boxes were transported to the Yard, where an expert chemist examined the bottles and their contents, which turned out to be-”

“Thank you,” Sims said, holding up his hand. “We’ll let the chemist tell us what he found.” He pointed to a stack of papers and several books. “This Anarchist literature, which I have entered as Exhibit C-you found it in Mr. Kopinski’s room?”

“Yes. The papers advertise an Anarchist meeting. The books are by Anarchists named Kropotkin and Bakunin.”

“Books advocating violence against the state?”

Finney nodded violently. “Oh, yes, indeed, sir. Very much so, sir.”

“And one more found object.” Sims pointed to another bottle. “Exhibit D. Please tell his lordship and the members of the jury what it is and where you found it.”

“Bottle of glycerine, sir. Doctor Gabriel’s Pure Medicinal Glycerine. I found it when I searched the newspaper office.”

“Thank you,” said Sims. “You may step down-unless, of course, my estimable friend Mr. Savidge has questions.”

“I suppose I may have one or two,” Savidge said, rising slowly. “Prior to the raid on the Clarion, the newspaper’s employees were followed. How long did you say you followed the suspects, Detective Finney?”

Finney thought. “For about a fortnight, I’d say.”

“A fortnight before the explosion in Hyde Park?”

“Yes. Maybe more.”

“So you were following these persons for a fortnight or more for no other reason than that they wished to exercise the right of the free press?” As he spoke, his voice rose. The last few words were spoken with a flinty emphasis.

Finney looked uncomfortable. “I wouldn’t put it that way.”

“I would,” Savidge said. “I certainly would. But never mind. Let’s talk about these three ginger-beer bottles that have been entered into evidence. Did either of the officers with you handle the bottles?”

“No, sir.” Finney squared his shoulders, assuming a brave look. “I was the only one. If something blew up, I didn’t want them to get hurt.”

“A commendable caution, I’m sure,” Savidge remarked in a dry tone. “You testified that you applied the labels to the bottles. Where did you do this?”

Detective Finney smiled. “Right on the side, sir.” The spectators tittered.

Savidge smiled. “Very good, Detective, very good, indeed. Where were you when you applied the labels?”

“In the defendants’ rooms, sir. I labeled ’ em as I found ’em.”

“Thank you. You testified that you handled the bottles with care. How exactly did you handle them?”

Finney frowned. “Sir?”

“Did you pick them up by the base?” Savidge asked patiently. “By the neck? Did you cradle them in your hands? Did you wear gloves?”

“No gloves.” Finney’s grin was crooked. “But I was careful. Didn’t want to get blown to pieces, y’see.”

“I do see,” Savidge said. He turned away as if to sit down, and the detective, obviously relieved, took a step backward preparatory to leaving the box. The prosecutor opened his mouth to call the next witness, but Savidge turned quickly, catching them both off their guard.

“And how about fingerprints, Detective Finney? Since fingerprint evidence prevailed in this very courtroom only two days ago, we must not neglect it. I don’t suppose you made an effort to wipe the bottles clean of any fingerprints that may have been left by persons who handled them prior to your discovery?”

“Wipe them clean?” Finney darted a surprised look at the prosecutor. “No, I didn’t see any reason to-”

“Very good, Detective. Now, then, did you make any effort to refrain from leaving your fingerprints on the bottles?”

Kate noticed that the judge seemed to be listening with a greater interest.

Finney frowned. “Well, no. I had to put on the labels, y’see, which means that-”

“So we are likely to find your fingerprints on all three of these bottles?”

“I suppose,” Finney said, now quite clearly nettled. “But I don’t know what you’re-”

Sims had gotten to his feet. “I would like to ask my estimable friend what he-”

“Thank you, Detective,” Savidge said. “That will be all.”

The judge was leaning forward, a slight frown on his face. “Does counsel for the defense wish to explain to the jury what fingerprints are? I rather think that most of them are puzzled.”

“I do indeed, but not at the present time, may it please your lordship,” Savidge replied. “I expect to have occasion to do so later.”

“Very well.” The judge took out his gold watch and consulted. “Twenty minutes to the luncheon adjournment.” He peered down at the prosecution. “Mr. Sims? Will that be sufficient time to present your next witness?”

“I believe so, Your Honor,” Sims replied. With a sidelong glance at Savidge, he added, “Unless my honored colleague plans a lengthy cross-examination.”

Savidge smiled.

“We’ll risk it,” the judge said, and tapped his gavel. “Proceed, Mr. Sims.”

“Call Mr. George Baker,” the prosecution said.

Mr. George Baker, sworn, identified himself as a chemist employed by Scotland Yard to conduct routine chemical analyses. He had, he testified, analyzed the contents of three ginger-beer bottles brought to him by Detective Finney.

“And what did your analysis reveal, Mr. Baker?” asked Sims.

Mr. Baker spoke with the precision that Kate might have expected from a chemist. “In the bottle labeled one, I found two hundred and ten milliliters of nitric acid. In the bottle labeled two, I found two hundred and fifty of the same substance. In the bottle labeled three, I found a hundred and seventy-five milliliters.”

“A little over a pint, all told.” Sims’s face was somber. He seemed to suppress a small shudder. “And how might an Anarchist use nitric acid? As a weapon, I mean.”

“In concentrated form, it can cause severe burns-thrown into a person’s face, for instance. And it is an active ingredient of nitroglycerine, a well-known explosive.”

“I see.” Sims paused. “And to make nitroglycerine, you also need-”

“Glycerine, of course.” At this elementary answer, Mr. Baker smiled in a self-deprecating way.

The courtroom buzzed. The judge rapped his gavel sharply. Sims raised his voice over the hubbub. “You’ve had an opportunity to analyze the contents of the bottle labeled Exhibit C, Mr. Baker?”

“Yes. It contains glycerine.”

“So the Anarchists had, ready at hand, the ingredients of a powerful explosive. Is that not correct?”

“That’s correct, sir. And nitroglycerine is the explosive compound in dynamite.”

There was an audible gasp in the court, and several small squeals from the more fashionably-dressed of the ladies. One fanned herself, while another appeared to be searching in her reticule for her salts. The journalists and artists along the wall were scribbling and sketching madly. Kate looked at Charles and saw that he wore a faint smile.

The prosecutor cast a sympathetic glance at the spectators. “But there is nothing to fear from these bottles, I understand, since the substances are not in combination. The ladies in this court are safe, are they not?”

“Yes,” Baker said dryly, “they are safe.”

“However, since each of these four bottles contains an ingredient of an explosive, each therefore falls under the sanctions of the Explosives Act.” He put on a pair of reading glasses, took a sheet of paper from his assistant, and read aloud, “ ‘Explosives are to be defined as any apparatus or substance used or adapted for causing, or aiding in causing, any explosion.’ Is that correct?”