the morning, the doctor explained the transfer to La Salpêtrière, which had been Bethlem when Kite had last read about it. There were strictly no visitors except on every second Monday, so he had to negotiate and managed ten minutes, but Jem, or Joe, had no idea who he was and didn’t want to speak English. Kite explained that they had been on the train together, but he could see it wasn’t sinking in. He tried again the next day. One of the doctors didn’t like having unashamed English people there and had him arrested. He spent a night in a police cell. By the time he got out again, Joe had gone home with a family who said he was theirs.
The address was easy to find after he’d bribed a nurse for it. It was a shabby town house in Clerkenwell. He introduced himself in the evening to the landlord, who gave him a cup of tea for his trouble.
‘It was very good of you to follow it up,’ the man said. He had excellent manners, but through their weave shone a match head of suspicion. The more English Kite spoke, the less M. Saint-Marie seemed to want him in the kitchen. It was a calm caginess; not rude, but how Kite would have been if an obvious highwayman had thumped down opposite and put his boots up on the table. He would not, he had said right at the start, fetch Joe; there had been enough confusion already.
‘I just wanted to be sure he’s – where he should be. Has he lived here long?’
‘Always. He grew up in this kitchen. He’s where he belongs, I can assure you. I imagine you need to be getting home now?’
‘Not till tomorrow,’ Kite said, and inclined his head to say he hadn’t missed the hint. ‘Does the name Castlereagh mean anything to you?’
‘No.’
‘Was his family always called Tournier?’
‘I believe so. Why?’
‘On the train, he said his name was Castlereagh.’
‘Well, everyone lies on trains,’ Saint-Marie said, quite gently, though he tipped his shoulder to say, particularly if they’ve been accosted by an English thug. ‘If you were hoping for a reward, this isn’t a wealthy family, I’m afraid.’
‘No. I’d just like to see him, that’s all.’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Saint-Marie.
There were footsteps on the stairs and Joe came down with a basket of laundry. ‘It’s freezing up there, can I sit in with you and steal your marzipan?’ he asked Saint-Marie in French, and then paused when he saw Kite. He didn’t recognise him.
‘Well, good night,’ Saint-Marie said to Kite. ‘Don’t let me hold you up.’ He saw him to the door. Once it had shut behind him, Kite heard Saint-Marie tell Joe he’d been some kind of beggar. He let his head bump against the wall. He could see horribly clearly what had happened. Joe Tournier was who Jem Castlereagh would have been, born into a London that had fallen to Napoleon. Jem’s London was lost, and so was Jem.
Could he really kidnap a man who was taller than him and get him all the way back to Eilean Mòr, all without hurting him? Even if Jem’s memory were guaranteed to return, he didn’t think he could do it.
‘He’s still there,’ Saint-Marie murmured. ‘Let’s call the gendarmes.’
He tried to talk to Joe again the next day, one last time, was arrested again on suspicion of conspiracy to steal a slave, spent two days in another police cell, and came out having decided, leadenly, what he would have to do. He had wondered about sending a letter – that would get through the front door, at least – but Joe had no reason to believe a random letter from a stranger. In the end, he went back up to Eilean Mòr and straight back through to the present side, back round to Stornaway. Trying not to think about it too much, he went to the post office and wrote a letter for them to hold until 1899. The woman at the counter looked suspicious of a scam, but promised to follow the instructions.
Agatha had got up an experiment with a frog and a Leyden jar when he came back to her rooms in Edinburgh. She had an apron on over her ordinary clothes. He put his bag in the corner and sat down on the spare stool. He was there for three or four seconds before she saw him.
‘Jesus! I’m putting a bell on you,’ she laughed. ‘How was it, what did