“Young man, you are on First Street,” Santa replied. “If you will go to your left until you meet G Street, turn left again and you will walk a few blocks until you get to 6th Street where you will turn again, right this time. You will find yourselves on H Street.” The man beamed at us, obviously pleased with himself that he could assist strangers.
“Thank you very much,” Peter replied, touching his fingertips to the brim of his hat. “May I ask you the date, please?” Peter laughed self-consciously. “We’ve become a bit disoriented due to our travels.”
“Why it is December 14th,” the man replied. “And of course, you know the year is 1864,” he added, laughing, exchanging a glance with his companion, who was smiling and winked in reply.
As we walked away, Peter laughed softly. “Now I know what is causing that horrible stink.” He glanced at me. “We are near the Tiber Creek, which was badly polluted with human waste after Washington grew too fast.” He had obviously made it one of his initiatives to familiarize himself with the streets and landmarks, which actually was a pretty smart thing to do.
“Oh, yuk.” Kipp managed to look disgusted as he inhaled deeply and caught a whiff of the waterway.
Fortunately, Elani had actually listened to the directions and memorized them. Well, that was as it should be since it was her trip by design. I confess I’d been too busy staring at the storefronts and other buildings and was lazy enough to hope someone else was paying attention. Maybe this supervision thing was pretty sweet, I thought to myself. I could go along for the ride but not have to prepare. It fit the growing lack of motivation that seemed to define my life. Kipp, who was following the progression of my thoughts like a terrier after a rat, ducked under my hand and gently bumped my thigh.
I wasn’t certain of the time, but it had the feel of pending daybreak. My main gauge was the growing activity I noted on the narrow street. There was a small, bob-tailed wagon loaded with coal making deliveries, as well as another large wagon with wooden crates stacked precipitously on the back section. A scruffy mutt of a dog barked ferociously at Kipp and Elani from his vantage point on the hard board seat of the coal wagon.
“Yeah, come and get some,” Kipp said, snarling at the little dog. Of course, Kipp was just playing, but I saw the dog’s eyes widen in response.
“Kipp, try and not terrorize the locals,” I admonished him. “And, please, no more movie-style dialog.”
“Okay, boss,” he said, his tone cocky. His fur was brushed from cold, almost snapping with electricity and vitality.
It was only a short time when we passed the jail, which had the sad, hopeless appearance of many such buildings. The front was lit by flickering lanterns, which cast moving shadows on the rough brick walls. As we turned on G Street, I saw the sun peek over the eastern horizon, the light cascading softly over my shoulder to touch my cheek. I hoped with the rising of the sun that the miserable sleet would move on and remain a thing of darkness.
We kept to the sidewalks, where they existed, and otherwise hugged the side of the road, since the streets were becoming more congested. Unfortunately, the curbs were a collecting place for trash and dead leaves, and we had to watch our footsteps. Reaching into my coat pocket, I retrieved a handkerchief; I could feel my nose running and knew I probably looked a mess. The cold was damp and bitter, and I was feeling it despite my warm undergarments and the three skirts I was wearing. I’d be glad to rid myself of two skirts, since I felt over-stuffed and awkward. I preferred a little more fluidity in my movements and had needed the ability to move quickly more than once in my past adventures.
“Your face has turned a color I’ve not seen before,” Kipp remarked. “And your lips are blue,” he added. “Petra, we must get you somewhere warm.” His voice in my head was urgent with concern.
I knew my limits and was certain I was okay, despite the frigid air. I grudgingly admitted that something warm to drink would be nice, and Peter rushed ahead to scout out a street vendor who was nursing a large receptacle of coffee simmering over an open fire pit. He obviously had a good business with everyday laborers who sought out a cup of something hot before they began their daily grind. Peter returned with a couple of tin cups brimming with coffee, the steam rising in the morning air. I figured the brew would be raw…cowboy coffee, they called it in modern times when it was served up in fancy bistros to courageous patrons who pretended to have stomachs made of iron. After pausing, I caught the encouraging expression in Kipp’s eyes and hazarded a sip. The brew lit a fire in my mouth before sliding heavily down my throat, scalding it along the way, until it hit my stomach with a thud and a mini explosion. As bad as it was, it did the trick, and I began to regain feeling in my extremities. Peter obviously had a similar reaction, if the expression on his face was any gauge.
“Better?” Kipp asked, tilting his head to the side.
“Yes, as long as this stuff doesn’t eat a hole in my stomach,” I replied with a grim smile.
Reinvigorated, we began to walk again. Elani had been conspicuously silent, so I glanced her way to be met with a wagging tail. I raised an eyebrow.
“Just a little nervous,” she replied honestly.
“Me, too,” I said. “I always feel like I have butterflies,” I added, laughing as her thoughts tangled with mine as she sought out the meaning of a new expression.
We stopped in front of a four-story gray brick building on the corner of H Street. I swallowed hard, recognizing the place from pictures that had stared back at me from history books. It was here that one of the most infamous killers in history met with his co-conspirators as he hatched his plans to bring down a government through the simultaneous assassination of key officials. Even though I routinely examined famous points in history, this moment had an unexpectedly surreal feel to it, as if I were viewing things from a distance, just a passive voyeur and not part of the action. I glanced at Peter and was surprised to see myself comforted by the confidence he exuded. No, he wasn’t cocky, just ready for action. Kipp nuzzled my hand, angling his head beneath, begging for a scratch.
“Petra, it’s time,” Peter said, reaching out to touch my shoulder, his hand somehow managing to convey warmth through the fabric of my coat.
Thankfully, I was somewhat rejuvenated by the bitter coffee and nodded at him. It was his turn to take the lead. We waited for a team of oxen, straining against a wooden yoke, pulling a heavily laden wagon carrying lumber, to rumble pass, the wheels causing the street to tremble, before crossing. Research told us the street-level door led to the dining room and kitchen, so we dutifully climbed the stairs to the second level landing, where Peter used the door knocker to summon an inhabitant. During the short wait, I occupied myself by staring down the street, looking for landmarks and becoming familiar with the area. There was a row of similar dwellings that did not give the impression of wealth but more of middle-class comfort, if such a thing existed. I knew Mary Surratt advertised for only gentleman boarders. All the houses seemed well maintained, and the street was relatively free of any sort of refuse. Even as I had that thought, a man walked past, pushing a large receptacle on wheels, picking up trash that might have been the result of late-night littering.
The door opened, and I was a little surprised to see Mary Surratt gazing at us, having expected that maybe a housekeeper or other worker would be given the task to greet strangers. She was taller than I, with a broad, square-shaped face and a jaw that was strong and well defined, but not unpleasantly so. Her facial features were evenly balanced, her nose straight, her eyes deep-set and direct beneath arching dark brows. Her hair was parted in the middle and swept back in rolls on either side in the contemporary fashion of the day, one which I’d never favored. Gold earbobs dangled delicately, the type of jewelry a lady would wear…not too much, but just enough. As Mary Surratt’s gaze swept over our odd group in a rapid assessment, an expression of curiosity crossed her face.
“Yes?” she asked, allowing herself a polite smile while clasping her hands at her waist
.
“Are you Mrs. Surratt?” Peter asked, removing his hat. Elani decided to sit, since she was trying to appear well behaved. A second later, Kipp’s backside hit the cold brick of the porch landing.
“I hope I don’t have to sit here too long,” he grumbled. “This is cold on my fanny.”
“Shut up,” I replied. “Peter is trying to focus.” It was an ongoing job to keep Kipp reined in.
“Yes,” Mary Surratt replied, nodding her head.
“I am Peter Keaton, ma’am, and this is my sister Petra Holmes. Please forgive the earliness of the hour, ma’am. We were sent to you by an acquaintance in the hope you can be of assistance to us.” Somehow, he had managed a skillful blending of dialects that would make his origin hard to pin down. Peter had done that on purpose so that he could move more easily in a deeply divided society.
“It’s rather brisk out here,” she replied, glancing up at the gray sky which promised a cold, freezing rain turning to snow as darkness fell. “If you would like to come into the parlor,” she began. Staring at Kipp and Elani, she hesitated for a moment, uncertain of protocol and manners in an unusual situation.
“Brother, I will be glad to stay out here with the dogs,” I offered, taking my handkerchief and giving my nose a vigorous rub just to demonstrate how blasted cold it was. I’d read her correctly, and her sense of gentility would not let her chat with Peter in the comfort of her parlor while I froze on her porch step. “I would not wish to incommode Mrs. Surratt,” I added, just to push the envelope.
“No, please come in,” she said, backing away from the door and gesturing with her hand. Her lips tightened; she was not keen on Kipp and Elani tracking wet paw prints on her floor but would tolerate it for the sake of good manners.
“I don’t care for the dog reference,” Kipp said airily. “And my feet are not muddy.”
“Me neither, Kipp,” Elani remarked, joining his attitude.
“Can it, both of you,” I hissed. Peter gave me a grateful nod as I tried to manage the rambunctious nature of the lupines.
We followed Mary Surratt into the parlor, which was a nicely appointed room; a fire blazed on the grate, and I felt somewhat cheered that I might get warm again. Trying to not appear too rude and ill mannered, I surreptitiously glanced around the walls at the pictures and along the mantle where framed pictures as well as the typical objects one has sitting around a home for decoration rested. She obviously had good taste and assembled just the right balance of items to make the room welcoming without seeming cluttered.
A young woman, maybe only in her late teens, entered the doorway, pausing for instructions. She was obviously the household servant, a thin, narrow-shouldered girl with pock scars on her pale skin. Her dress was plain and a full-length apron covered the front of the garment. The girl’s eyes met mine for a brief flash, the expression rather blank and dull. Her life would be filled with toil at the direction of others…or at least, that was how she viewed the world. There were those who had and those who worked for those who had. It was as simple as that in her experience.
“Maureen, please bring us some tea,” Mrs. Surratt requested, her tone mild and not unpleasant as she directed the girl. Mary’s eyes returned to us. “And how may I be of assistance, Mr. Keaton?”
Fourteen
As Maureen scuttled off to the kitchen, which was one level below where we sat, Mrs. Surratt saw to our comfort.
“Are you close enough to the fire, Mrs. Holmes?” she asked, a slight frown settling upon her smooth brow. In her early forties, she had aged well for the times and could have passed for a younger woman.
“Yes, thank you,” I replied. She had adroitly picked up on the fact Peter and I had different last names and assumed I was a married woman.
She settled her skirts, which was an ongoing issue with women of past times. I’d settled many a skirt in my days and was happy to wear sweat pants and jeans in contemporary times. Just thinking of a pair of nice, broken-in jeans made me a little homesick. My own condition, with three skirts bunched under my backside, was uncomfortable, and I tried not to squirm against the padded fabric beneath me. I felt like a toddler in a booster seat. Mary’s gaze flicked almost imperceptibly towards the lupines, who were trying to appear bored and well behaved. No, she wasn’t overly fond of dogs in her home, but her innate need to be courteous won the day. She would have been an amazing poker player with her calm façade and deliberate manner, and I was grateful to be a telepath who could read her mind instead of her facial expressions.
I glanced at Kipp, who was doing his deep dive into her mind, sifting through her memories that had been laid down over the years. I was somewhat startled to realize that Elani was attempting the same thing, straining a bit. Well, good for her. She needed to flex her muscles, and if Kipp was pushing his abilities, why shouldn’t she? Maybe Kipp’s skills were not so unique after all but just had been lost over years of convincing ourselves as a species that some things were just not to be done? But there did seem to be a factual basis that his primitive origin gave him more strength and agility in his talents.
“My sister and I are looking for some lodging for the short term,” Peter began. “I know that you take gentlemen only, but we were hoping you could refer us to someone who could accommodate us.” Peter was really good at that sort of inquiry since he had that heartfelt, puppy dog kind of expression that people just believed. He, generally, was likeable, while I believe I usually served as an irritant…or at least I’d been told that on many an occasion. “We need rooms in a respectable part of town where we will be around fine people, such as yourself,” he added for good measure.
Mrs. Surratt obviously liked his latter comment and preened just a tiny bit. She did view herself as a lady, and although not of wealth, she managed a business that was keeping the family fed and clothed. The dialog paused as Maureen returned with a loaded tray carrying a teapot, cups, and a plate with some crusty biscuits. Mrs. Surratt waved the girl away and did the chore of serving us herself. The steam rising off the surface of my cup of tea tickled my nose; I curled my palm around the delicate china and was happy to note I finally had feeling returning to my stiff fingers.
“Well, I think it may be difficult to find a place that can accommodate your needs,” Mary Surratt replied delicately, her gaze encompassing the lupines.
Kipp glanced at me. “She knows of a place but doesn’t think it is necessarily appropriate for a female,” he remarked.
“Push her, Kipp.” My glance at him was veiled as I took a sip of the tea, which was quite good, although an uninspiring blend. I felt an unexpected twist of my heart as I thought of Fitzhugh, back home, probably preparing tea at that very moment. In my mind, I conjured the fragrance of Earl Grey steeping.
Elani glanced at me, narrowing her eyes. It was rare I asked Kipp to manipulate the thoughts of a human, since it really was not an ethical behavior. But it was necessary we have lodgings near the Surratt home where we could monitor Mary’s thoughts and those of prospective visitors. History indicated that John Wilkes Booth was introduced to John Surratt on December 23rd. Our timing was good, giving us the opportunity to set up a listening post nearby.
Kipp began to casually lick his paws as he concentrated, once again, on Mary. He glanced up at me and wagged his tail. It was obvious he enjoyed doing things that were natural for him versus following symbiont codes that were set down for reasons that might be good but also might not be. It was as effortless for him to enter her mind and plant suggestions as it was for Fitzhugh to brew an excellent pot of tea.
I glanced at the windows that overlooked the street. The sounds filtering past the glass suggested that commerce and trade were escalating as the day progressed. The noise of wagon wheels creaking and the occasional whinny of a horse, along with the murmur of human voices, entered the warm, cozy room, muted but evident. Unexpectedly, there was a sound of something crashing to the floor on the level below us; Mary Surratt allowed a frown to flash across her face before
resuming her remarkable poker face.
“And how are you finding our city, Mrs. Holmes?” Mary Surratt was acting as a proper hostess to pull me into the dialog.
“We only just arrived,” I answered. “It seems very busy,” I added with a deliberately self-conscious laugh. “I’m accustomed to a little slower pace.”
“And where is your home?” Mary Surratt was curious in the context of a war-torn nation.
“I’m from Tennessee,” I replied. Through my years of traveling I’d managed to acquire a nice tool kit of languages and dialogs and chose, during this trip, to speak with a softly rounded type of accent, not deeply southern but not really anything else. I, like Peter, didn’t want to stick out amongst the population.
“Oh, how nice,” Mary murmured, relaxing her guard somewhat. “I’ve never traveled there myself, but hear that parts of it are lovely.” The fact I was from the south brought her comfort due to her pro-Confederate leanings, and she almost uttered a sigh of relief. She assumed I would have the same types of thoughts about the war as would she. As she rose to warm up our tea, a sweet fragrance of some floral scent wafted through the air as she bent over my cup. Jasmine, perhaps? Walking to the stairway, which led to the kitchen below, she called for Maureen. The girl appeared quickly, no doubt not wanting to be chastised for lagging.
“Maureen, I want you to go fetch Mr. Paul Garland,” Mary said. “Don’t forget your coat and hat, child.”
I personally hated for Maureen to have to go out into the cold but kept my mouth shut. We had to let this household function as would be normal. From the few murmured words she’d uttered, I realized from her speech that Maureen was an Irish immigrant, many of whom were put to use serving in the army as well as in homes as servants and laborers. I cut my eyes at Kipp, who had relaxed now that his manipulation of Mrs. Surratt was complete.
A Conspiracy to Murder, 1865 Page 14