Page 60 of When You Rescued Me

“Find the ones for the third quarter of last year, Ross,” Jealous said.

“Care to let us all in on the hunt, Jealous?” Sir John leaned on his cane. “What did you find in Bristol?”

Jealous gave a brief account of his and Samuel’s time at Bristol’s quay, ending with their discussion with the old fisherman.

“And out of those slim clues, you came up with John the Painter?” Clarke said.

“Yes.” Jealous reached for the first book Samuel had found from the third quarter of the previous year and started skimming through its pages. “He’s sufficiently familiar with paint products to know which ones are the most flammable, and he has no love for England.”

“Did the fisherman hear him speak?” Sir John asked.

“No, m’lord.”

Sir John grunted. “Unfortunate.”

“Who is this John the Painter?” Samuel asked. If they hadn’t been riding so hard all day, he would have queried Jealous during their return journey, but the principal officer’s sole focus had been on reaching Bow Street in time to locate the criminal’s record. They’d barely exchanged more than a dozen words the entire journey.

“His given name is James Aitken,” Sir John said, “but he has various aliases, including John the Painter, James Hill, and John Boswell. He was born in Edinburgh and served an apprenticeship to a painter in that city—which is how he acquired his most commonly used moniker. He moved to England and embarked on a second career as a highwayman, burglar, and robber. After Jealous here caught up with him, he fled the country. To the best of our knowledge, he negotiated an indenture in exchange for a voyage to Jamestown.”

“I’d be willing to bet this month’s pay that he escaped and is back in England,” Jealous said.

“What more are you looking for in the books, then?” Samuel asked. It seemed to him that the magistrate had remembered enough to give Jealous whatever details he might have been missing.

“This!” Jealous said, stabbing his finger at an entry.

“Read it, Jealous,” Sir John said.

“James Aitken, alias John the Painter. Charged with robbery. Released due to insufficient evidence on 12 September 1773. Immediately below is the name of the fellow he shared a cell with. George Grimsby. Charged with robbery. Released due to insufficient evidence on 12 September 1773.”

Samuel looked at Clarke, knowing his face was a fitting reflection of the shock on his colleague’s.

“Blast it all, Jealous!” Clarke said. “How do you remember things like that?”

“How he does it hardly matters at present,” Sir John said. “The fact that he has done it, however, is precisely the breakthrough we have been looking for. Well done, Jealous.”

“Thank you, m’lord.”

“So with this new lead—”

The front door banged open, interrupting Sir John mid-sentence. A young man burst in, and without waiting to catch his breath, he gasped, “The London wharf’s ablaze!”

Hannah joined the stream of people racing toward the growing fire. Shouts mingled with the slap of water against the wharf, the creak of ship timbers, and the crackle of flames. Up ahead, the silhouette of her father’s warehouse took shape in the increasingly smoky air. It was completely dark. The tension in Hannah’s shoulders eased a fraction. For now, at least, the structure was safe.

Two men tore past, buckets in hand. No matter that the water of the Thames was within arm’s reach, the threat of the fire gutting the entire wharf was horribly real. Almost everything in sight was built of wood, and the ships were berthed so closely that a single spark carried on a puff of air could start a chain reaction that would be all but impossible to stop. Unless they contained the blaze before it could fully take hold.

Knowing she could do nothing to assist with the fire aboard the distant ship, Hannah ran past her father’s warehouse and toward the warehouse a little farther down the wharf, where two lines of men and women were frantically passing buckets of water from the Thames to those standing before the burning structure. The flames licking through the windows hissed as the water hit them. Smoke plumed, and then the flames returned.

“We need more buckets!” someone yelled.

More buckets! Surely that was something she could help locate. Were there any inside her father’s warehouse? Hannah attempted to picture the space she’d so recently visited. She could not remember seeing anything beyond the remaining hogsheads of rum and sacks of sugar. The molasses was gone. There had been no other containers.

She reached the alley between the burning building and its neighbor. As far as she could tell, the small crowd’s focus was on the flames at the front of the warehouse. Was it possible that no one had checked the alley for buckets? Surely there might be something that could be used to haul water near the rear doors. Veering away from the line of people, she entered the alley.

Very little of the fading sunlight penetrated the narrow space. Relying on the flickering orange glow coming from the front of the building at her right to guide her steps, Hannah hurried forward. A dark lump against the wall up ahead materialized in the smoke. She slowed, reaching for it. An empty crate. She lifted it only to see faint slivers of light through the wooden slats. It would not do. Disappointed, she tossed it aside and kept moving.

Another shape took form ahead of her. This one moving. Hannah’s heart thudded.

“Is anyone there?” she called.