A Conspiracy to Murder, 1865

by T. L. B. Wood

  I glanced at him from the corners of my eyes, not sure what to say in response to his poetic dissertation. At that moment, I saw the corner of his mouth twitch and reached out to punch his arm with my fist.

  “You’re a booger, to use Elani’s favorite term of describing Kipp,” I cried.

  “Just trying to lighten the mood,” he said, grinning.

  We sat watching the lupines, who had abandoned their play and shifted to mock predatory behavior. Kipp was fully capable of hunting prey as well as catching and devouring it, but with my supplying food, his hunting behavior was just for fun and to keep in practice. The lupines shared some qualities of canines in that they were hardwired to seek prey; their intellect, however, gave them choice. Their hearing, eyesight, and noses were vastly superior to their humanoid companions, enabling them with survival tools the rest of us lacked. And Kipp was correct in that he didn’t have to take baths or wear a corset. I found myself feeling a mite jealous and wishing for more hair, big ears, and a longer nose.

  “As your boss, I’ve been concerned over your preoccupation with some past time-shifts,” Philo said, as he reached out to pluck a tiny twig that had fallen into my hair. “And as your friend, I’m even more worried.” He began to twist the twig into a pretzel shape. “Maybe you need to back off traveling?” His voice was tentative, since he knew what such a statement would imply. Kipp was young and needed to travel but had the misfortune to be paired with me and all my current issues. But Kipp would not leave me, as he had adamantly stated on many occasions.

  “I’m good,” I replied tersely.

  I was relieved when the back door squeaked on its hinges, and Peter’s head stuck out the crack to announce that the Fellowship of the Ring movies were just beginning, and all three would run in consecutive order. What the heck, I thought, since it was a Friday night, and none of us were compelled to show up at work, bright-eyed and energetic the next morning. Philo seemed to want to stay, too, since Claire was out of town visiting Silas. During the Two Towers, I brought out blankets, a couple of sleeping bags, and pillows, and we ended up having an old fashioned sleepover. Fitzhugh was on the sofa, while the rest of us fashioned pallets on the floor. After squirming around to get all the wrinkles settled in my makeshift bed, I made myself comfortable with Kipp’s broad flank as my pillow. Eventually, despite the sound from the television, the rhythm of his breathing combined with the warmth of his body eased me off to sleep. For the first time in quite a while, I had no nightmares and slept a dreamless sleep.

  Three

  I felt somewhat disoriented and momentarily confused to find my living room filled with bodies --humanoid and lupine -- as well as one small cat who had parked her fuzzy body, which reverberated with purrs, between Kipp and me. As I opened one sleepy eye, the scene filled me with contentment. Aggravated, I realized Kipp was correct and that I’d become an old softie, filled with sentimental nonsense. Gently, I displaced Lily, who uttered a soft meow of protest; her body felt like a heated brick in my hands. Kipp thumped his tail, once, before stopping, since no one else was yet awake. Noiselessly, I tiptoed to the kitchen, so I could gaze out of the row of windows that ran the length of the room. It always made me feel I was outside, and I stared through the glass at the filtered sunlight that was breaking through the leaves in shimmering streams of pale gold. Elani appeared, and she and Kipp, who trailed behind, disappeared into the yard, making their rounds of the property. Philo was next, a lopsided smile on his face, enjoying a private moment alone with me before the room became crowded. Since I had not prepared to have guests for breakfast, it would be Pop-Tarts and cereal—at least I hoped the Cheerios still had a decent expiration date—for the humanoids, while I prepared chicken and rice for the lupines. After everyone finally assembled, straggling in waves, we supped; our appetites satiated, we crowded around the dinette for the story to unfold, which is why we’d gathered in the first place.

  “Ok, tell us about Spring-heeled Jack.” Philo rubbed a hand over his hair, which was already standing on end after a night spent on my floor. He nodded as I refilled his coffee cup.

  There was always significant preparation so that one could assimilate and melt seamlessly into a crowd during a time-shift. I’d worked with Suzanne, who created wardrobes for travelers to match what was appropriate for the time as well as social class. In1837 London, there was less physical segregation of the wealthy from the poor, and even in areas that would later become mainly populated by the poor, there was a mixture of the classes in the districts that bordered the city of London proper. Our destination was Battersea, which was located in the southern part of London. London was the central hub with the numerous districts ringing it much like small villages set in a country-like setting. Although my early years had been spent elsewhere in central Europe, my family led a nomadic life and migrated so as to not gain the curiosity of the populace. This sort of existence was true then of my species and still was in current times but to a lesser degree. And I’d been to England many times over the years in my travels, so this particular trip required little preparation for me to fit in with ease.

  After a lackluster send-off party—and I admit, I had been a little disappointed since previous ones had been filled with humor and camaraderie—Kipp and I had made the time-shift sans Peter and Elani. Fitzhugh, actually, had proposed that we break apart our quartet for one shift so that Kipp and I could focus on our time together as a bonded duo. He didn’t say so, but I suspected the residual trauma from our trip to the Titanic had something to do with his suggestion. The entire notion of traveling as two pairs simultaneously was rather novel in any case. We left in the fall so that our travels would roughly parallel our natural timeline.

  A time-shift, for the uninitiated, is a rapid travel through time, backwards, and then a return to where one’s life would have advanced in contemporary times, although that particular mark was negotiable. We were unable to travel as a duo into the future, although Kipp had moved forward in time, leaving his lonely past behind, when partnered with me. Kipp and I had covertly tried a real, honest-to-goodness trip into the future as a team and failed miserably. I have never been a good student of science or physics, but I guess our species has to have made a footprint in time to which to return, and that is the best explanation I can give. During the time-shift, the world becomes dark, and one feels as if one is diving off a high, narrow springboard into a black pool of water, immense and depthless. I’ve always thought my body was being stretched beyond its limits, almost painfully so, during a shift. Some natural protection exists in that we don’t materialize inside of a solid object or in the midst of a cluster of humans. I liken it to fish that swim in large groups or a flock of birds turning and wheeling in concert while flying through a shadowed grove of trees.

  This particular landing was rather hard for me, and I think it may have set the stage for the later fracture of my arm. When I regained my sensibilities, I was lying awkwardly on my left side, my arm twisted behind me, painfully so. Even though I tried to not complain, I guarded that injured arm until the day it was broken. But that story is yet to come. Reaching out with my right hand, my instinctive first move was to feel for Kipp, although I knew he was uninjured, and his typically jaunty attitude brimming with self-confidence filled my mind. He and Elani were the two most gifted and relaxed travelers I’d known.

  “Watch yourself,” he cautioned, his soft muzzle touching my cheek, leaving a damp imprint upon my flesh.

  Glancing up, I was startled to see a man, who, although several feet away, was close enough to clearly have seen the two of us, Kipp and me, materialize out of nothing. His eyes darted downward, and I realized my skirt was up, almost to my waist, and my minimal undergarments were in full display. I was glad, in that instance, that some type of undergarment had just become in vogue for ladies since prior to that time, the style was to go commando. The man’s mouth fell open as he began to stutter and point; a second later, he seemed to realize he was holding a liquor bottle
in his hand. With a high pitched scream for one so heavily built as was he, the man threw the bottle, which shattered on a stone walkway, and began to run, his steps unsteady as he tottered along the dirt road that stretched off into the graying twilight. I caught a whiff of the cheap whiskey as it atomized into the air. Grimacing, I managed to unwind my arm from my back and gingerly pulled down my skirts. I needed a moment to catch my breath.

  “Well, that hasn’t happened in many years,” I remarked. It was true that I’d rarely been seen, uh, magically appearing.

  “Not my fault,” Kipp sniffed. He clearly was not in the mood to assume any small bit of responsibility for the clumsiness of our landing.

  Spring-heeled Jack made his first notable appearance in 1837, but after that, a similar character appeared over a time span that would seem to negate the possibility that he was mortal. This idea was reinforced when he continued to appear in North America up until the 1970s. But I’d personally never met Bigfoot or the Jersey Devil and remained a skeptic of such things. I had, however, met several ghosts, so perhaps I needed to remind myself to keep an open mind. But considering the ongoing reports of a Spring-heeled Jack figure, I considered the possibility of decades of copy cats. Some humans crave attention, I suppose.

  Time-shifting for symbionts requires research as to the desired destination as well as acquired skill to land at the appropriate time and place. Since Kipp and I had made the journey to London previously, we only had to adjust our time trajectory. I add, with no false modesty, that we were very talented at our particular trade. After the man whom we’d startled with our impromptu arrival disappeared into the gloaming, I managed to stand, feeling a little dizzy. Fitzhugh warned me that as I made more and more shifts over the centuries, my ability to tolerate such trauma to my system as well as achieve a rapid recovery would lessen. Such physical limitations explained my slowness upon “landing” as opposed to the high energy and alertness possessed by my younger counterparts.

  “No, you are not old by any means,” Kipp remarked, looking up at me as his brushed tail began to wag. “You’re still a young symbiont, but I just happen to be even younger. One day I’ll feel just like you do today.” He was trying to boost my mood, and I appreciated the effort, but I still felt pretty rough.

  I winked at him before pausing to canvass our surroundings. Hearing the solid thud of footsteps, it was not difficult—and required no telepathy—to predict the arrival of a constable, summoned by the terrified voyeur. At least my skirt was back around my ankles where it belonged; my backpack, which carried an extra skirt and blouse and a few essential items, looked odd and out of place as it rested on the ground.

  “Miss, are you alright?” the constable asked after glancing around the immediate area to try and determine how my appearance could have frightened a large, solidly built man.

  Thinking quickly and lying adroitly is a very important skill for us, so without pausing, I created a little tale. “Yes, thank you, sir. There was a man here…I think perhaps he had imbibed some spirits…and when I walked past with my Kipp, he was startled and ran away.” I blinked my eyes for good measure. “I didn’t mean for us to scare him.” Letting my hand deliberately drift down to lightly touch Kipp’s broad back, I added, “Kipp is rather large, and I forget how people might react to him.”

  “Yes, right you are, miss,” the constable replied, relief on his young face, which was lightly pocked with smallpox scars. He was tall, unusually so, built like a thin scarecrow that should be hovering in some wind rattled cornfield, attempting to frighten away insistent crows. “This is not a good place for you to be alone,” he added with a gesture of his hands.

  “So, what am I?” Kipp asked, his thoughts merging with mine. “Does the man not see me standing here, ready to rumble?”

  “If you could show me to some respectable place where my Kipp and I might take a room, I would be grateful.” I made no effort to change my diction and accent, and the man’s thoughts betrayed he knew I was an American, perhaps some lost county bumpkin who needed all the help I could get.

  The constable was happy to act as a chivalrous hero, even to carry my backpack, at which he had darted a puzzled look at its unusual style. As he led me down a street that was lightly traveled, I glanced curiously at my surroundings as one might expect of a visitor from out of town. We passed several storefronts, most of which were beginning to shutter for the evening. The area was poor, but as I knew from history, this district had extreme poverty cheek to jowl next to homes housing upper middle class as well as more wealthy people. Many of the laborers in the district worked for their wealthier neighbors, and a relatively peaceful coexistence prevailed. Social unrest as a result of poverty and working conditions was lurking on the cusp of society. The thick smells of chemicals and decay swirling past us had drifted to the area from the tanneries and slaughterhouses, which were not too far distant. Kipp wrinkled his long nose and looked up at me.

  “Not sure how they stood it,” he opined, trying not to cough. His keen sense of smell magnified what for me was extremely unpleasant.

  “They didn’t know anything else, so this was their normal,” I replied.

  “It’s a stinky normal.”

  The constable stopped in front of a narrow building, squeezed in on either side by common walls from other businesses. The sign proclaimed that it was a dressmaker’s shop. Grinning at me, the constable tapped lightly on the door. After a minute, a lit lantern from the back of the store appeared, and a petite, elderly woman opened the door, after having peered out cautiously through the window.

  “Hello, Matthew,” she said, beaming up at the constable.

  “Good evening, Miss Logan,” he replied. “I heard from one of your neighbors that your spare room became vacant.” Turning, he gestured towards me. “I met this young lady tonight who needs a safe place and thought of you.”

  I stared up at him, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. “And how would you know I’d be a good tenant for Miss Logan?” I asked.

  “I have a feel for people and pretty much can determine right up front their qualities, good and bad.” He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s a gift.”

  I laughed, reaching down to pat Kipp’s head. Miss Logan was staring at him, and I was pleased that her thoughts were not negative. My huge companion was a little too large for some people, but not this tiny dressmaker. And although I was not particularly tall, standing next to her, I felt like a giant.

  “What a lovely animal!” she said. “I just recently lost my little dog,” she remarked, her chin quivering slightly as she spoke. “May I pet him?” Her hands were aching to feel his fur and touch him as she had her own companion.

  “Kipp loves people,” I replied.

  Kipp eased up closer to her, careful to not be too rambunctious, and her small hands, which were mildly twisted by arthritis, gently rubbed the rufous fur on his back. He closed his eyes as she gently scratched along the crest of his spine.

  “Why don’t you scratch me there?” he asked, opening one eye to stare accusingly at me. “That’s an exceptionally good spot, so please take note.”

  As Miss Logan continued to run her hand along Kipp’s fur, I explained I would be in England for a few weeks and needed a room. “I’m a writer,” I lied. “I’m here researching a story and will be out some in the evenings in search of some facts.” I paused for a moment as we stood in the feeble light of a gas-lit lantern that shone nearby; a large moth beat its wings against the glass, trying to reach the tantalizing amber glow within. “I only tell you that so that you won’t be disturbed by my comings and goings.”

  She stared at me, her eyes dropping to the modest jet brooch at my throat. Harrow’s pearls were hidden beneath the high collar of my blouse. Her thoughts and that of the constable reflected their concern for me and more than a little disapprobation of my need to wander about the streets in an unsafe area without a male companion. Such activities were not particularly ladylike and definitely not a sign o
f intelligence or sound judgment, but as Miss Logan looked at Kipp, she smiled.

  “I would normally not advise a lady to walk the streets unaccompanied, but I believe you have your escort,” she said. “You may have a key and do as you wish.”

  As the constable left us, she escorted me into her establishment. The familiar fragrance of musty fabrics and candle tallow lingered heavily in the main room, which was a little dusty but neatly kept. One wall had shelving containing fabrics on large rolls. A large cutting table was in the center, and there was a grouping of comfortable upholstered chairs to the side to accommodate waiting clients.

  “I sew for many of the women in this district,” Miss Logan remarked as she picked up a piece of tailor’s chalk that had been left on a low side table. “Of course, many of the wealthy patrons seek out larger establishments in London, but I am content to ply my trade here. Fewer complaints and less arrogance, I’ve found,” she added, smiling at me.

  At the rear of the large room, there was a doorway that opened into a very small kitchen and another that led to Miss Logan’s bedroom. The room I was to occupy was overhead, and a steep, dark, narrow staircase led to the second bedroom.

  “I don’t go up there much anymore,” Miss Logan remarked, her tone a little wistful. “My hips are too stiff, and I’m afraid I’ll take a tumble down the stairs.” Lightly touching my shoulder, she said, “Why don’t you go check out the room while I put on a kettle of water for us to have a cup of tea together? I was just about to prepare my nighttime cup when you arrived,” she added hastily, so that I wouldn’t protest over her extra labor to accommodate me.

  With Kipp leading the way, and a candle in hand, I climbed the stairs, which opened out into a room that spanned the entire top floor. There was one large window overlooking the street, and a pair of faded brocade curtains hinting at a past elegance was drawn back with velvet ties snagged by bronze hooks. The walls were covered with aged wallpaper; some of the joined areas had lost their adhesion and buckled from the surfaces. The bed was ancient mahogany set with scratches marring the once polished surface, but the mattress was overstuffed and promised a soft, downy surface upon which to rest. I smiled at Kipp, who was wagging his tail, clearly pleased.