A Conspiracy to Murder, 1865

by T. L. B. Wood

  A Conspiracy to Murder, 1865

  The Symbiont Time Travel Adventure Series, Book Six

  T.L.B. Wood

  eBook Copyright

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Copyright © 2019 by Tara Brooks Wood All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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  eBook ISBN: 978-1-64457-029-6

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Before You Go…

  Robin Hood, 1192

  Acknowledgments

  Also by T.L.B. Wood

  About the Author

  For Nicholas

  Waking or asleep

  Thou of death must deem

  Things more true and deep

  Than we mortals dream

  To A Skylark, Percy Bysshe Shelley

  One

  I may look human, but I am not and am apart from the throngs who, at times, surround me in blissful ignorance. And Kipp, my furry canine-appearing companion, is no dog. We are symbionts with a telepathic bond that enables us to travel back in time. Curiosity is one of the characteristics of my kind, and we like to solve mysteries of the past, which linger, unsolved, to modern days. And in my four-hundred-plus years on earth, I’d done just that, first with Tula and now with Kipp, who’d bonded with me during a journey to pre-recorded time from which faded paintings on rocks are the only remaining hint of humanity’s struggle to survive. Kipp is unfettered by thousands of years of fragile genes and possesses all the natural attributes given to us by the creator and is the best, most solid partner any symbiont could desire. Because of the broad nature of his talents, partnering with him has been a growth experience for me, as well as for him. With all that being said, it seemed odd to me that my arm would be broken during one of our adventures. With the good fortune of relatively accident-free adventures, why now, I wondered? After all my experiences and mishaps during countless trips back in time, the fracture occurred during the pursuit of an entity known as Spring-heeled Jack who happened to terrorize Victorian London on and off during the early 1800’s. But I was thankful to be back home in contemporary times, recuperating.

  It was early April in the piedmont of North Carolina; the daffodils were long since gone, their place in the rolling landscape taken by azaleas, which thrived in the softly filtered spring sunlight and the tantalizing breaths of warmth that preceded the summer that was yet to come. The change of seasons, with the sudden temperature spikes and lows, always made me hold my breath, hoping the flowers could withstand the rollercoaster ride of the unexpected. I smiled as I recalled the day that Kipp and I had planted the coral azalea, which blazed against the bright green of new grass, and the cool white one that memorialized my former partner, Tula. As much as I enjoyed the variation of seasons, I already looked longingly towards the future and the autumn that lay ahead. The musty smell of dying leaves, the bursts of chill in the air, a promise of winter to come, and the glorious flames of orange, red, and yellow…it was my personal favorite time of year. Glancing across the yard, I watched Kipp’s posture as he became focused on something hidden in the early grass that begged to be mowed. The rainy season had caused nature to have an impressive growth spurt resulting in shaggy lawns and overenthusiastic hedges. The sunlight turned Kipp’s ruddy coat of fur into a pool of molten copper that rippled when caught by the slight breeze; his plumed tail began to wag furiously. I had not thought of it before, but his coloration matched the fall palate of which I’d wistfully been dreaming.

  “Petra,” he called to me, using the telepathy of our kind, “I’ve found a baby bird!” Turning, he glanced at me. “What do I do with it?” He was clearly distressed.

  “Back away, and let’s see if mama shows up,” I suggested, my advice not necessarily born of wisdom but more of practicality.

  My traveling partner retreated several yards before crouching down in the grass, his long muzzle pressed down to the earth, as if he believed such a posture rendered him invisible. “I want to make sure he’s okay,” Kipp remarked, kind and thoughtful as was typical of him.

  It was only a few moments later when the baby’s mama arrived, chirping loudly from a branch overhead. I couldn’t read the mind of a bird, but it took no special gifts to understand she was alarmed by the presence of Kipp, who, in fairness to the bird, appeared to be a large dog in search of a meal. The baby, who instinctively hunkered down in the grass when caught in Kipp’s massive shadow, seemed to appreciate the motivational speech from his parent and, after a few failures, managed to whir clumsily to a low branch, his feathers looking like soft, downy fringe beating the air. He was off and running now, I thought with satisfaction. Maybe he’d have a chance since he was off of the ground, and his vulnerability to predators had decreased just a whit.

  The heavy tree limbs overhead groaned as they scraped against one another, disturbed by a persistent wind from the northeast; lifting my head, I caught the scent of the azaleas, sweet and intoxicating. From somewhere in my quiet neighborhood, I heard a dog barking insistently. Kipp stared at me and shook his head. He, unlike me, had the ability to read the notions of many non-human creatures, but the dog was too far distant for a reading of the inner workings of his mind. The back door to my house opened, the loud squeak interrupting my peace. I’d meant to oil the hinges, but now was glad I’d let that go along with so many other things. The sound reminded me of the past and an old house I’d once occupied. That dwelling, beaten, neglected and sagging, had a wood framed screen door that protested mightily with the entry and departure of all visitors. It had seemed to me to be a happy noise. Shaking my head, I internally chided myself for my sentimental musings.

  “What are you doing out here?” Fitzhugh used an economy of words, a quality I appreciated. There is something to be said for lacking subtle nuance.

&nb
sp; Humans might speculate that telepaths communicate with ease with one another, but it is not always so. My kind are telepathically gifted but have, with our progression into modern times, devised all sorts of ways to not communicate in direct opposition to what was meant to be natural for us. Rules and regulations…and then more rules seemed to be the adaptation to the challenges posed to us by a human world. However, no matter what we do, we are not human, and to pretend to adopt their mores is ill-advised. Kipp was my blessing since he was straight out of the distant past and knew nothing of being constrained by any hierarchy known to symbionts. He’d freed me in more ways than I could list.

  “Just enjoying the breeze,” I replied, smiling over my shoulder at Fitzhugh. I enjoyed the feel of my dark hair, captured in a braid that fell between my shoulders, slapping my back as I tossed my head; I felt sassy, the mood brought on by the spring weather as well as the healing of my broken limb. Since my health issues had been resolved, I could resume jogging with Kipp by my side. The crimp in my normal activity had left me sluggish and more than occasionally grumpy. And I needed no more reasons for my mood being low, irritable, and generally unsettled. A sequence of time-shifts had left me with unresolved issues and lingering moodiness that is not a good thing for one who makes her living by traveling to dangerous times and places.

  “Well, don’t be long. Peter, Elani, and Philo are coming by for you and Kipp to give the lowdown on your London adventure,” he said, trying to sound gruff but failing. I knew him too well, and he could never be like the old Fitzhugh I once knew. “They managed to restrain themselves until now in kind consideration of your, uh, infirmity. And don’t forget that I’m also waiting for your chronicled version for the library.”

  The break in my left humerus had not left me unable to entertain guests, but I’d used the issue to my advantage, not being particularly motivated to cook or clean. In the end, I’d managed a crockpot soup that required minimal effort along with a pan of cornbread—which, by the way, was one of my hallmark creations thanks to my mother and a few of her closely guarded culinary secrets that involved heating the oil and adding it back to the batter before pouring it into the hot pan. But I had not cleaned, with the exception of the guest bathroom, which was another holdover from my mother’s rules of etiquette…clean sheets and a clean bathroom are a must at all times. As I followed Fitzhugh into the kitchen, I sniffed the air; my crockpot soup was filling every corner of the room with savory scents. Fitzhugh opened the door to the oven and removed a tray of brownies.

  “For Elani?” I asked, knowing the answer.

  He stared at me, not liking to be predictable but at the same time, enjoying the unexpected domestic tranquility we enjoyed. I’d known him for years, working in the library at Technicorps, where our collective of symbionts labored. Humans couldn’t detect that we were not of their species due to our human-like appearance —the physical exception being our companions that looked like true, domesticated canines, as did Kipp—and we moved about as needed to disguise the fact we never seemed to age. Actually, we did, but at such a slow rate as to be unapparent. And then there was the question of our canine partners who never left our sides. Such a situation made moments exceeding difficult to manage, such as when Kipp and I were on board the Titanic. I know I missed a couple of fine dining experiences due to Kipp’s doggy face and body, which prevented his crossing the threshold into the First Class Dining Room as I casually hobnobbed with the swells.

  Kipp trailed reluctantly, not wanting to leave the yard but also not wishing to be far from my side. It was our way to create these bonds, humanoid with lupine, which enabled us to time-shift in search of adventures. But my bond with Kipp was unusually close, the usual guards that prevented telepathic intrusion having been abandoned, and Kipp was constantly in my head. One might think that sensation of total enmeshment would be unpleasant, but I’d come to embrace such as the natural intent and could not imagine life without Kipp’s constancy.

  My tendency was to be a bit of a slob, but as Kipp delicately sniffed my pants leg and raised a lupine eyebrow, I figured I needed a bath. Fitzhugh tried to hide his smile behind his mustache and gray beard that reached midway down his chest. I heard the ticking of claws against the wooden floor of the hallway, and a moment later, Juno stuck her head around the door frame; I could hear her tail thumping against the wall. She had arrived at my house with Fitzhugh, both in need of housing. Just as he, she was a valued elder. Unlike the disturbing trend among many human cultures to disregard elders as nonessential and a burden, symbionts still honored ours as the repository of knowledge and skills, and I hoped that never changed. Once a doggedly committed hermit except for Tula, I now shared my house with two lupines, Fitzhugh, and a striped feline named Lily who was snoozing in the rear of my closet in an empty shoebox that she’d claimed as her den. Her possession of the closet had proved problematic as she seemed motivated to attack my ankles every time I had to enter her inner sanctum. As I passed Juno, my hand drifted down to caress the soft, downy fur on top of her grizzled head. Juno was a treasure whose counsel I appreciated. She brought a measured balance to all discussions and rarely, if never, brought heat to a disagreement. Fitzhugh was another matter, and I’d had my eyebrows singed more than once over the years during an encounter with him.

  Kipp followed me down the hallway to my room, which was in the rear of the house. For some reason, he found my need to take a bath amusing. After circling, he plopped down on a bath rug and casually began to clean his paws with the rough surface of his tongue.

  “I’m always thankful when I see you having to douse yourself from head to toe with water, that I can just shake out my fur and, if I’m in the mood, give my paw a lick or two.” Smiling, he rolled on his back and stared at me from an upside-down position which was never flattering, since his jowls hung loosely, and it gave him a goofy appearance.

  “I wish you could see yourself,” I replied, laughing. “The very image would wipe the smile right off your face.”

  The water felt good against my scalp and flesh, and by the time I finished, the small bathroom was filled with fog to the degree the image in the mirror was just a tantalizing shadow of my face. As I pulled the comb through my wet hair, I reflected upon my life. I’d not always been a loner and once upon a time was married with a child, having taken a vacation from traveling for a while. But that had ended, sadly, and all remaining of that time in my life was the occasional visit to my son’s grave, which lay on the crest of a lonely hillside. After I resumed traveling, Tula and I encountered a disastrous moment for a bonded pair of time travelers when she was killed. Without the telepathic balance of a lupine partner, I was unable to travel and was going nowhere fast. If Kipp hadn’t shown up, I’d still be sitting on a windswept hillock in the distant past, waiting for my lonely end. Kipp, with his endless curiosity, had sought me out, pinging like sonar to find me. Without him, I would have been trapped in time, unable to return home.

  Kipp followed me into my bedroom and hopped up on my unmade bed. The room, as was most of my house, was furnished with pieces that had seen a fair amount of use, and the wear and tear showed on their scarred surfaces. The marring had never bothered me, and I viewed each piece as carrying history with it, just as did I. My four-hundred-plus years had left me with scars, too.

  “You’re kinda lazy,” he observed, blinking his eyes as he waited for my response. With our mental bond, he’d been following my pensive thoughts and took the route of playfulness to restore my better humor.

  “You could help around here more,” I remarked.

  “I lack thumbs, as you can see,” he replied brightly, tilting his head to the side, as he gave his usual response.

  “Your lack of thumbs doesn’t seem to prevent you from doing anything you please.” Glancing at him, I added, “I notice you finished the memoirs of Ulysses S. Grant last night on your Kindle.”

  “And it was a good read,” Kipp replied, closing his eyes while he stretched, his large ears
flattening against his head. “Interesting and extremely well written, too.” His eyes opened. “I think even Mark Twain remarked about that fact.”

  I ignored him since he was clearly showing off. Never a fashion maven, I reached for a pair of sweat pants and a pullover that had seen better days. I reserved my moments for dressing nicely to travels when such attire would be mandatory. I hated corsets, crinolines, and enormous hats as well as pointy-toed shoes that compressed my feet to the point of pain and a stilted, wobbling gait. My one concession to beauty and elegance was the strand of pearls puddled on my dresser top, glowing softly in the ambient light. It would be incongruous to wear pearls with a sweatshirt, but I cared not. That particular adornment had been given to me by one William Harrow, a man I met while chasing—or more accurately, being chased by—Jack the Ripper during a trip to 1888 London.

  Kipp’s thoughts, tangled with mine, softened as he felt my chest squeeze painfully at the memories. “Does it hurt less with time?” he asked.

  “Not really,” I replied, feeling my mouth twist in a crooked smile.

  I heard someone who pretended to be wise in the manners of the heart say that we didn’t mourn a specific person but rather what that person and the relationship might represent. What hogwash, I thought. I missed William Harrow…his quiet, solid nature…his gentle kindness. With little effort, I conjured up the vision of his blue-gray eyes that reminded me of rain falling on a stormy day.