When Henry walked down the main road a few days later, looking for work, he saw a poster stuck up outside the Gold Office. PUBLIC MEETING, it said in big thick black letters. There was a lot of writing underneath it, but Henry knew it would take him too long to work it out. He hurried along to Mr Hunter’s pharmacy, sure that Frank could tell him what was going on. And there he saw another poster, right in the middle of the shop window.

He found Frank sweeping the floor of the shop while Mr Hunter worked at the back in his dispensary. ‘The boss has decided the place needs a proper spring clean,’ he said. ‘Care to help me? It’s worth half a crown to you.’

‘All right.’ Henry moved out of the way of a broomful of dust and bits of rubbish. ‘Frank, what does that poster say? There’s a public meeting about something, but I can’t read it all.’

‘I thought you’d have heard,’ Frank said. ‘There’s going to be a meeting today about the Bentleys’ trial for murder. It’ll be held on the exact spot where James Scobie was killed, the very same spot. Just think, Scobie’s ghost might be there, all misty white, listening.’ He put down the broom and waved his arms at Henry. ‘Woo-oo-ooh!’

Henry took no notice. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘I mean, why is there going to be a meeting?’

‘Don’t you know anything? Everyone’s talking about it. Bentley’s off the hook. He’s as guilty as blazes, and so’s his wife, but the magistrate let them off scot free. The trial was a joke.’

Frank always tried to sound important, Henry thought. ‘I knew that,’ he lied. ‘At least, I knew they got let off. Why did you say the trial was a joke?’

Frank swished a big pile of rubbish out into the street and came back into the shop. ‘There wasn’t even a jury. The magistrate just popped up and said the Bentleys were innocent. Everyone knows that’s not true. Jack says he’d like to have the magistrate’s guts for garters. Me too, except I’d give him a good roasting first.’

‘But if the Bentleys are guilty, why did the magistrate say they weren’t?’

Frank rolled his eyes. ‘Think about it, Henry. They’re all mates. The traps and the magistrate go to the Eureka Hotel every night and get treated like kings, free drinks and all. That’s why it wasn’t a fair trial.’ He threw Henry a scrubbing brush. ‘Here. The counter’s sticky. It needs a good clean.’

Henry remembered the promised half crown. Dipping the brush in a bucket of soapy water, he started to scrub. ‘Will you go to the meeting, then?’

‘You couldn’t keep me away. With any luck, there’ll be trouble.’

Henry stopped scrubbing. ‘What sort of trouble?’

‘What d’you think?’ Frank’s eyes shone with excitement. ‘Fighting in the streets! The diggers against the traps! The poor against the toffs! Us downtrodden Irish against you high-and-mighty English!’

‘That’s not fair – I’m not high and mighty at all. If it comes to that, we’re worse off than you.’

‘Whatever you say, Sir High-and-Mighty.’

Henry hurled the scrubbing brush at him.

‘Ouch! Poo, this brush stinks like hair oil.’ Frank sniffed at it. ‘And so do you.’

‘You stink, you . . . potato-eater.’

Frank aimed the brush at him. ‘Not so bad as you, you Brummie lime-juicer.’

They grinned at each other.

‘Boys, boys,’ said Mr Hunter, returning to the front of the shop. ‘I pay you to work, not indulge in horse-play.’ He looked at them over his half-moon glasses. ‘Are you talking about the meeting? Anyone who cares about justice should be there.’

‘You want to come to the meeting, so?’ said Frank to Henry. ‘It’s twelve o’clock sharp.’

Henry knew he shouldn’t go. He knew, sure as eggs, what Father’s reaction would be. ‘No, I should get back to help on the claim,’ he said.

‘It’s only for an hour,’ Frank urged him. ‘Ma and Bridget and the little ones are going. Jack’ll be there, too.’

Henry thought about it for as long as it took him to get the scrubbing brush back. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll come.’