A Conspiracy to Murder, 1865

by T. L. B. Wood

  “What makes people willing to fight against other humans?” Elani asked. After she’d made her physical empathetic connection with me, something had changed between us, and I felt a closeness that I’d not felt before. We were totally at ease with one another. For a flash, I wondered how she and Kipp were proceeding with their relationship since she’d also had the same exercise with him.

  “Some of these men are conscripted and are forced to fight.” Peter lifted his head and gazed at the column, which was disappearing from view. “New immigrants were sometimes met fresh off the boat and told that as an exchange for citizenship, they would have to join the army. And then there were many who fought due to their conscience, feeling they had a responsibility to defend their county.”

  “I know the historical reasons, Peter,” Elani responded, her tone patient, “but that is not my question. How does one actually take an action that can end the life of another human?”

  I reached down, finding the hidden topknot of her skull underneath the fur covering her head, my fingers curling around to scratch the underside of her jaw. “Elani, sometimes people are put in a situation where they must act, or their life is forfeit. They don’t have a choice. But humans I’ve known who have to do such things, find it a sobering event and one they don’t take lightly. It sometimes haunts them for the rest of their lives.”

  Thinking that Elani was getting caught in the quicksand-like mire of the human condition, I drew her attention to the toy store that was famous in its day. We’d made it to New York Avenue, and the windows of the two-story Stuntz house were filled with the delightful handmade toys about which I’d read. Drawing closer, Kipp seemed mesmerized by a porcelain doll that beckoned to him from the street-level window. His breath, from his mouth and nostrils, began to cast a foggy circle on the glass. I almost had to physically drag him away, so captivated was he, so that we could make our way to the general goods store that was another block distant.

  A bell tinkled brightly as we entered, and the lupines were quick to drop to the floor next to the door, making themselves into as small a couple of bundles of fur as was possible. The storekeeper, a middle-aged man wearing a white apron stretched across his barrel chest, frowned and opened his mouth to protest, but Peter bounded across to the counter and announced we needed to pick up a significant number of items and needed his assistance. The man’s expression immediately changed, proving, once again, that money is the great equalizer. While Peter grazed throughout the men’s ready wear section, I picked out a dressing gown, another chemise, a couple of plain blouses, and a few other items. For some reason, I’d left home without a hairbrush, so I got that, too, as well as a wide-toothed comb so I could groom the lupines.

  As Peter was negotiating some canned goods and dried meats, I made the circuit of the kitchen goods and found a pretty tea set. Unfamiliar with the pattern, I traced with my fingertip a trail of tiny daffodils that danced around the potbelly of the teapot, noticing the little flowers wound their way into the bottom of the delicate cups, to rest there, staring up at me with their happy faces. Biting my lip, I pulled away, but Kipp’s head lifted as he watched me. Before I knew it, Peter had added the tea set to the growing pile of goods, as well as a kettle we could use to heat water on the kitchen stove. It was a little embarrassing to be found coveting the tea set, but it reminded me of home and the wonderful ritual of tea with Fitzhugh.

  “It’s okay, Petra,” Kipp said. “Let’s get the tea set. It’ll bring you happiness during what could be a difficult time.”

  “And I like tea, too,” Peter said, his face flushing at my startled glance over what had been a simply nice deed between two symbiont collaborators. He casually asked the shop keeper to add a tin of his best tea blend to our bill.

  After giving the shop keeper our address to have the items delivered later in the day, we decided to continue walking. The weather, though cool, was tempered by a bright sun hanging overhead that warmed the fur on the lupine’s backs. Kipp and Elani had become restless due to a lack of action, and a long walk seemed in order.

  “I’d really like to see the White House,” Elani announced. She sounded, in that moment, like an out of town tourist ready to see the sights.

  Since she was never one to be pushy, I wanted to accommodate her, and the walk would do us all good. We continued on New York Avenue, heading roughly southwest, dodging overburdened wagons, men in military uniforms, and everyday laborers about their business. The street was fortunately constructed of macadam, and we were spared some of the muddiness that had seemed to plague our journey to date. The sky above remained cloudless, the dome of blue arching from horizon to horizon with only the slightest breath of wind on the air. As a miniscule breeze curved around my face, a tendril of hair fell across my forehead. I tried, in vain, to tuck the hair back up under my hat, but it persisted in tickling my brow as if someone was teasing my flesh with a bird’s feather.

  “Look!” Peter exclaimed, literally stopping in his tracks while raising his arm to point ahead. Directly in our path was the White House, similar in form to the contemporary one but without all the fences, barriers, and other modern necessities. I wondered if the lawn would have any hope of being green in the summer, so trampled had it become by the ongoing flood of visitors and supplicants. Even now, there were numbers of people standing outside waiting, their feet restlessly shuffling as they waited, I suppose, for an audience with someone important.

  I glanced to my right to mark the spot of the Seward house where the ghastly attack upon the then secretary of state would occur simultaneously with Lincoln’s assassination. It was quiet, the windows shuttered, as opposed to the bustle of activity at the White House. We decided to make a tight loop and begin walking back towards our new home, since curiosity had brought us, and we had no need to linger. Unexpectedly, I saw a boy—a young boy—running across the lawn of the White House, leading a black and white goat on a tether. The goat didn’t look too excited to be pulled around but followed reluctantly, jarring along with a stiff, reluctant gait. The boy’s dark head lifted as he caught view of the lupines, who couldn’t be inconspicuous if they tried. He began to run, chasing after us, since we’d pretended to not see him.

  “Hey, stop!” he cried, running in front of us, goat at his side.

  This was another unfortunate moment, and I wondered if our current time-shift was destined for us to unexpectedly collide with the notables of the day. First was John Wilkes Booth. And now, blocking our path was Thomas Lincoln, known as Tad, youngest son of Abraham Lincoln.

  “Well, this is great,” I muttered to my companions.

  “I like your dogs,” Tad continued.

  “And I like your goat,” I replied, feeling the need to engage him since the moment had happened, and we couldn’t make it disappear. He was a child, after all.

  “I’m Tad,” he said, tilting his head as he squinted his eyes half shut against the brightness of the sun. “You’re pretty,” he added, smiling.

  “I’m Petra,” I answered. “And you are very handsome.”

  He laughed again, clearly delighted with my words of praise. History told us that Tad was impulsive, never disciplined, wreaking havoc in the White House, disturbing Cabinet meetings and the like. He wasn’t mean spirited, just kind of wild. The loss of his brother, Willie, had deeply disrupted the family, and no doubt Tad suffered from the endless grief of his parents, who indulged his fancies. The few words he’d spoken were not clearly articulated, and it was clear he had some type of speech impediment.

  Without asking permission, he boldly stepped forward to touch Kipp’s broad head after handing me the goat’s tether. Yes, that pretty much fit what had been written about the boy. He was neatly dressed in a black suit with long pants, since it was winter, but I could see him in a pair of knee pants quite easily. I wondered where was the little Union soldier’s uniform he was rumored to wear at times.

  Reading the mind of Tad was pretty easy for all of us, since he didn’t have t
he quantity of memories set down in his brain as would an adult, as well as his thought processes being less complex. But his mind was surprisingly filled with trauma, mostly due to the death of his brother, and the subsequent havoc that event raised. His mother, Mary, summoned mediums to the White House to try and conjure the spirits of her two dead children; Tad was disturbed by this and terrified by what might be happening behind the closed door during a séance. The fire in the White House stable that had killed his and Willie’s ponies was particularly vivid in the thoughts of the boy. Willie’s pony was a physical link to the brother he’d lost, and now the little horse was gone, too. It was clear he felt great love for his mother and father, and despite Mary Lincoln’s erratic moods and behaviors, she was a doting mother. I couldn’t fault Tad for his lack of discipline since his grieving parents gave him little structure. What did one expect from a curious and lively twelve-year-old? On the other hand, I could understand how parents who had lost two children out of four might be less likely to be harsh with the surviving ones. Despite the fact I was supposed to remain detached and analytical, I felt my heart squeeze just a little as I watched the boy.

  Tad moved from Kipp to Elani; her dark eyes closed as she concentrated on his physical contact with her. She was engaging in her newly revealed ability to gather impressions as his hands ran over her head and neck. Well, I wasn’t sure how the rest of this time-shift would proceed, but it was already proving life-changing for one beautiful lupine named Elani.

  “Wait here,” Tad ordered, his childish voice sounding a mite imperious. “I’m gonna go get Papa so he can see your dogs.” He darted away, leaving me holding the goat’s tether.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said, alarmed. It could disrupt our entire trip if we were to get entangled with people so early on. There was a nearby sapling, so I secured the unhappy goat, and we beat a hasty departure.

  We decided to flee along G Street, since it would be less heavily traveled, we figured, than Pennsylvania Avenue. After a hurried dash for three blocks, we paused for a breather. I was accustomed to jogging, but racing along in my heavy skirt was different than in my running clothes, and I admit I was breathless for a few moments.

  “Just grateful I’m not wearing a corset,” I said, rolling my eyes at Peter, who was likewise trying to breathe at a normal rate.

  “Me, too,” he responded.

  We walked back to our new digs on H Street, and just moments after letting ourselves in through the kitchen-level door, a delivery boy arrived driving a small cart led by an old mule that looked as if it was ready for retirement in a green field full of fragrant clover. As the boy brought the packages inside, I eagerly looked for my tea set and had it unpacked and sitting on the table in short order. It was prettier than I recalled. Now that I had a few items assembled, I glanced at my companions.

  “I’ll be back in a flash,” I said. Kipp started to follow but stopped at the door, his head tilted to one side. It was one of the rare moments he was not plastered at my side.

  I grabbed the new woolen shawl I’d picked up at the general store, wrapping it securely about my shoulders. The garment, though lightweight, added immediate warmth to me, and I felt like a baby swaddled in a snuggie of some sort. Elani had selected the color, though the choices were limited, and it was an earthy green which complemented my hazel eyes, or so she said. Dodging a man who was driving a gaggle of geese along the street, using a long stick to prod them along by taking advantage of their natural tendency to move as a group, I crossed over to Mary Surratt’s townhouse and climbed the brick staircase to the parlor landing. After making a feeble attempt to straighten my hat, I lifted the door knocker and gave a couple of ladylike taps. Maureen must have been close by, because she almost immediately opened the door, her face showing recognition of me.

  “Hello, ma’am,” she said, bending her knees in a little curtsey.

  “Could you tell Mrs. Surratt I would like to speak with her a moment?” I asked, smiling at the thin girl.

  Maureen, after seeing me into the warm parlor, darted away. I looked around the room, contrasting it to the hulk in which I currently resided. It was a rather shocking contrast, but of course our goal was not to impress the neighbors but to establish a spy nook, and that we’d done. We only had a short time before Booth would meet Mary’s son for the first time and then the activity in her townhouse would escalate.

  Mary Surratt walked into the room, the fresh scent of lavender wafting across the air currents as she moved. Her clothes must have been stored with sachets of crushed flowers or perhaps she was wearing some perfume; my bet was on the sachets, since that was a common practice, and it was wartime, limiting the availability of what might be thought of as luxury items. She smiled, but her face, as before, was guarded.

  “Why, Mrs. Holmes, how nice to see you,” she breathed, uttering the expected greeting. Her thoughts were not negative, but she was distracted and disturbed, and it only took me a moment of sifting through her mind to discover why. Her son, John, had returned and was in residence upstairs. There had been an altercation between the two that morning, and she still felt the sting of agitation, although she was trying to tamp it down. By her nature, she was not an overly emotional woman and high spirited arguments did not fit with her character. I wish I’d brought Kipp, but it was too late to have that worry. He was still in my head, but it would have been fortuitous for him to be there with me.

  Mary and I murmured polite comments back and forth before I got to the point. “Mrs. Surratt, I realize my home is very humble in comparison to yours, but I would like to invite you for tea,” I finally managed to say.

  “Why, how kind,” she replied.

  Odd, she actually meant it. From our earlier impressions, we’d gathered she really had few female friends and spent her time with her family as well as managing her business.

  “And I’d love for you to bring your daughter, if she is available,” I added. Of course, I wasn’t being polite. We needed to become familiar with Anna, too.

  As Mrs. Surratt asked after our new accommodations and the like, I searched the house telepathically until I located John Surratt, who was in his room upstairs. Kipp, who occupied his typical cozy spot in my head, gave me a thumbs-up as he used me as a bridge to do his own quick survey that would help both of us to recognize the man in the future. I felt a beading of sweat dampen my forehead, such was the effort for me to canvass that dwelling to locate one man amongst others.

  After Mary agreed to visit me on the following day for late morning tea, since she had obligations in the afternoon, I begged to take my leave. Thankfully the geese were gone, although they’d left their, uh, mark upon the street, and I had to pull up my skirts a little higher to avoid dancing upon the landmines. Perhaps there would be more rain that night to cleanse the area.

  “You should have had me with you,” Kipp greeted me, as I breezed through the doorway. “John Surratt is there, and I could have started work.” He actually was pouting a little.

  “Kipp, I know Mrs. Surratt is not keen on having dogs in her house. I was trying to not push it. But if we can get her and her daughter over here, in our house, we will have an opportunity to get more information.” I mock glared at him, hands on my hips. “Okay?”

  “Well, I guess so,” he grumbled. “I don’t like being left out.”

  Elani seemed to know how to get him out of his moods, and she hopped up from her place in front of the stove and, after biting him rather fiercely upon his left haunch, took off up the stairs, Kipp in hot pursuit. Peter and I exchanged looks as we heard the heavy footsteps tromping on the worn flooring above us; I grimaced when I heard something crash to the floor with a heavy thump.

  I raised my eyebrows at Peter. “Kids.”

  Eighteen

  Even though my ego did not need to be stroked by having a parlor as well-appointed as the one of Mary Surratt, I did put Peter to work moving the sparse furnishings to best compliment the beaten, weathered room. I wanted
it to look nice, I suppose, and perhaps that reflected a personal vanity. He even lit a candle that managed to fill the room with the soft scent of juniper, which diverted one’s attention from the otherwise funky smell of rotting timber and mildew. While Kipp and I planned on entertaining and simultaneously sifting through the minds of our neighbors, Peter and Elani would travel to Pumphrey’s stable, which was located on a diagonal across from The National Hotel. We still had time to explore the city and surrounding countryside, waiting, as it were, until December 23rd. Peter endeavored to hire a carriage for us so that we could get clear of the congestion of Washington and, perhaps, find a nice piece of land upon which the lupines could stretch their legs. Kipp, particularly, was feeling too confined. His heavily muscled body needed regular exercise and playing tag with Elani in the townhouse wasn’t sufficient. With no effort, I could feel his built-up tension mounting.

  I’d decided to wear one of my new readymade blouses, which had a softly rounded collar upon which Harrow’s pearls could rest for all eyes to see. They were a lovely strand and added an elegant touch to the blouse, which was beyond plain. Kipp confessed to feeling a mite anxious, a very rare occurrence for him, so I tried to soothe him by combing him and smoothing his thick fur coat. He finally found a patch of sunlight cascading in through the parlor windows and, after trampling down a bed of imaginary leaves, circled and plopped to the floor with a big sigh. There was a tap on the front door.

  “It’s go time,” Kipp said, opening one amber eye to stare at me.

  “Where on earth did you hear that?” I asked.

  “A movie I was watching,” Kipp replied, stretching his jaws wide with a big yawn. I fancied I could see halfway down to his stomach.

  Mrs. Surratt, looking cool and composed as she had before, stood at my doorway, her daughter, Anna, at her side. Anna was a pretty young lady, and although I could see her mother’s features in her face, they were softer, more feminine, and her chin had a fetching little dimple. As I ushered them past the threshold, they both cast discreetly curious glances about the foyer as well as the parlor as we entered. Following their thoughts, I recognized their shock at how shabby was the dwelling and some degree of horror that I’d made it my home. But none of this was evident on their faces.