A Conspiracy to Murder, 1865

by T. L. B. Wood

  “Nicely done, Kipp,” I murmured, watching his tail thump the floor in response to my compliment.

  “Mr. Garland is a gentleman I know who has a property on this street, actually on the diagonal across that way,” Mary said, pointing vaguely out the window. “He purchased it with the intent of transforming the street level into a tea room, while he will convert the other levels into rooms to be let out to borders.” She folded her hands on her lap as her lips tightened slightly. “The previous owner let the property decline, and there is extensive work to be done in order to make it habitable. Mr. Garland has had to delay his plans for renovation due to difficulties getting materials and workman in place as long as this war continues.” Her face clouded for a moment and she looked at her hands, forcing them to be still in her lap. “But I believe portions of the building are habitable, if you don’t object to less than sterling conditions.”

  “That sounds perfect for us, Mrs. Surratt. Perhaps the presence of our dogs won’t be an issue,” Peter added, laughing politely.

  “Actually, Mr. Garland has worried over the property being vacant, concerned that vandals might try and enter the building.” Her grave eyes met mine. “This town is full of riff-raff due to the war,” she added as her lips turned down at the corners.

  I didn’t interrupt Kipp, who had returned to his deep dive into her mind. As we sat there, I let my thoughts turn to Elani for a moment. It was clear that she was motivated by Kipp’s talents to challenge her own limits, maybe privately or perhaps with our support. We knew, from symbiont history, that lupines once had the ability to enter the minds of others and control their actions. Kipp possessed this, but I knew of no contemporary lupine with that skill. Was it there, in Elani, dormant, waiting to emerge? For all my time spent to date with Elani, she remained a lovely mystery.

  With effort, I returned to the subject at hand. It was clear that Mary Surratt had strong feelings about the war, and my canvassing of her surface thoughts immediately revealed her Confederate leaning. I also caught a twinge of worry about her son, John, as that thought flickered across the tablet of her mind. She nursed an ongoing concern that he would be in trouble due to his connection with the Confederate government. But her thoughts stopped there, as they should. John Surratt would not meet John Wilkes Booth until later in the month of December. I did clearly pick up that she suspected her son worked as a spy for the Confederate government, even though he wouldn’t admit it to her. There was a profound fondness for her youngest son, her baby, and maybe her greatest affection was for him over her other son and daughter, Anna. I thought of how he refused to return to aid her when he knew she would be executed. Apparently, although his mother would protect him, he had no such feelings of responsibility to defend her if he thought she was innocent. He alone possibly had possessed the ability to save her life if he’d spoken on her behalf.

  We heard the front door open, and the blurred sounds of chaos from the busy street flooded into the foyer. I saw the slim figure of Maureen bustle past before she silently disappeared down the stairs to the kitchen; her relief at returning to a warm house was evident in her posture as well as her thoughts. A moment later, a tall, middle-aged man with a face red from the cool air stepped into the parlor, sweeping his hat from his head as he did so. His graying hair was combed over a balding spot on top, and a pair of bright blue eyes formed the focal point of an altogether pleasing countenance. As Mrs. Surratt rose to see to his comfort and Peter stood to shake his hand as greetings were exchanged, Mr. Garland took a seat, leaning forward in an inviting posture, curious as to why he’d been summoned.

  “Mr. Garland,” Peter began, “my sister and I are going to be in Washington for a brief period of time and are in need of lodging. We travel with our beloved dogs and that poses an issue with most establishments.” Peter smiled, the beguiling face of an honest, earnest young fellow. “Because of my dear sister,” he continued, gesturing at me, “we need to be in a respectable area, so that further compounds our difficulties.”

  Mr. Garland glanced at me and sat up a little straighter in his chair. He ran a hand across his balding pate, concerned that the removal of his hat had left his thinning hair disturbed. Kipp giggled in the back of my head, while faking innocence as he snored softly.

  “And Mrs. Surratt told you of the townhouse I own on this street,” Mr. Garland said, smiling. He glanced at the lupines, who continued to play as if they were snoozing. It was evident he liked dogs; a smile crossed his face and one didn’t even need to bother reading his thoughts. “I’d like to be able to accommodate you, but the townhouse is not in the best condition,” he began.

  I started to ask Kipp to get the man to reconsider any negative thoughts but held back. We’d let Peter test his ability to lie his way through this discussion and manipulation. Elani’s tail twitched, just for a second, in agreement.

  “Well, sir, Mrs. Surratt has told us that. But your building is on a good street, and until you begin work on the improvements, you would have paying tenants. And our dogs are amazing watchdogs and would help protect the property from any nefarious individuals.” Peter paused. “We only need the rooms until mid-April,” he added, trying not to sound too eager and breathless.

  Mr. Garland took a deep breath. “There are no servants in the house,” he began. “The kitchen is on the lower level, much like this townhouse, with a parlor on the second level and rooms on the third.” He glanced at Mrs. Surratt. “The top level has damage due to a failing roof, which I am replacing before I begin any other renovations.”

  “As I said, this would be only temporary, and we would be good tenants.” Peter started to add it would be a “win win” but then decided that might be an expression that seemed out of place in 1864. “I can pay for the entire stay upfront, as they say,” he added, smiling.

  “Well, there are advantages in not having a vacant building,” Mr. Garland conceded. “But I feel, in good conscience, that I need to show you the townhouse so that you will not be disappointed. It is truly in need of major work, young man.”

  “Sir, if it gives us protection from this weather, we will be grateful.” I spoke up, knowing my words would sway him in the right direction. “I’m not accustomed to such cold,” I added, widening my eyes. To appeal to his unconscious mind, I lightly wrapped my arms about my lower chest as if I were chilled from the elements.

  He smiled in return. “The stoves are the things that are in good order,” he said. “It will be no problem to have coal and wood delivered so that you can be warm, Mrs. Holmes.”

  Yes, I’d appealed to the chivalrous side of his nature as I knew I would. Some humans might think our natural manipulation of their kind to be shameless and deceitful, but it was just what we did. How else is a species such as ours, which co-habits a crowded planet, to remain under the radar of humans while trying to exist within the definition given to us by the Creator? I occasionally felt guilt but tried not to linger in that place of bad feelings.

  “I will be glad to show you the property, Mr. Keaton,” Garland said. “I’m actually on my way to my office, and we can go to the townhouse now, if you wish.”

  “Excellent,” Peter replied.

  As we stood and murmured our thanks to Mrs. Surratt, I intensified my intrusion into her mind, while privately encouraging Peter and Elani to do the same. Her patterns of thoughts would need to be sufficiently familiar to us that we would be able to pick her out amongst many from our spy hole across the street.

  “What amazing dogs!” Mr. Garland exclaimed as he replaced his hat. “I don’t think I’ve seen any to match them in size and appearance.”

  I had always told humans that Kipp was a red-crested Chinese mastiff, and he had complained every time over my made-up breed type. I’d never quite understood his dislike over something that reeked of exotic, but thinking quickly, I tried to piece together a new name.

  “Mr. Garland, Kipp and Elani are both from a breed that was and is still used in Siberia to herd and protect live
stock as well as hunt. They are truly very adaptable.” I stumbled, trying to think of a clever name. “And these particular dogs are extremely hardy and courageous,” I added, still thinking.

  “How about Siberian Tiger dog?” Kipp asked, liking the name.

  “Or Silver Siberian mastiff?” Elani suggested, using her coloration to create a name, ignoring Kipp’s glare.

  “They are Siberian Deerstalkers,” I finally stuttered, hoping Kipp would approve the deerstalker part since he liked Sherlock Holmes.

  “Oh, cool!” Kipp exclaimed, happy over the hastily improvised moniker.

  “Siberian Deerstalkers?” Mr. Garland looked momentarily puzzled before he smiled. “Just another example of how large is our world, and there are so many places of which we only have a cursory knowledge.” He stood, hat in hand. “If you are ready to accompany me,” he said invitingly.

  I was ready to go at that point, because I wanted an opportunity for Kipp to assemble his thoughts and share in a place where we didn’t have to be simultaneously dealing with humans. In other words, I wanted us symbionts to have time together to process events, people, and impressions. As we were saying our goodbyes to Mary Surratt, I realized again what a remarkably controlled woman she was in terms of guarding her thoughts. She had obviously learned, during wartime, to monitor what words left her lips in front of strangers. And even though there was some lingering fondness and friendship for Mr. Garland, he was not in her safe circle of friends, and she limited her sharing to him of superficial matters.

  “Please come back and visit me, Mrs. Holmes,” Mary murmured softly, her hand pressing mine. Her hands were large and strong, and given her height advantage, I glanced up at her face. Reading her thoughts, I was surprised to see that she was being genuine with me and not simply being polite as custom dictated. Mary Surratt spent her time running her household, seeing to the needs of her boarders and worrying about her children, especially young John. She had no close female friends and was basically lonely. She’d moved to Washington from the tavern her husband had managed in the countryside, and the main social connections she had made were through her church.

  “I will do that, Mrs. Surratt.” I smiled. “And perhaps if we establish a modest household so close by, you can come and have tea with me one day.”

  “And of course Kipp and Elani are welcome here, since they are so well behaved,”’ Mary added with a soft, ladylike laugh. “And you, too, Mr. Keaton,” she said in a rush, her cheeks coloring faintly as she feared she’d been rude. It takes a lot to be rude to a symbiont, but of course she didn’t know that.

  As she walked us to the door, her hand dropped down to lightly touch the top of Elani’s head. I wondered if she’d find the funny little point on Elani’s noggin, and she did, after a moment’s search through the dense fur, locate and caress that spot. She smiled, glancing at me.

  “Growing up, I was not around dogs very much. And then I was sent off to school where there were no dogs. I think I can see why people value them…they have a comforting presence.”

  “Yes, they do indeed, Mrs. Surratt.”

  Fifteen

  The townhouse, set on a diagonal from Mary Surratt’s home, was almost identical in form, at least from the street level. Mr. Garland acted as our guide, discreetly taking my elbow with a feather’s touch to lead me to safety across the busy street. Upon closer inspection, it was obvious there was significant deterioration and neglect, with paint peeling from the door that led into the street-level kitchen and dining room, as well as a couple of windows that had been boarded up as result of broken panes of glass. Mr. Garland turned to us as he pushed the key into the door lock. The door frame must have been slightly warped because he had to push hard against the door a couple of times before the wood popped free. As he opened the door, a whoosh of air smacked me in the face; it smelt stale, vaguely unpleasant, and I could clearly detect the scent of old food, perhaps something that had rotted and been left behind by a workman or previous inhabitant.

  “I warned you that it is in need of many repairs,” he said apologetically, his skin blushing soft pink.

  I walked forward, moving to the far counter; there was a pump, and I almost shouted with joy. We wouldn’t have to tote water, slopping it on ourselves, from some public outlet. There was a small recessed area covered by a full-length curtain, and as I peeked behind the fabric I found a metal hip bath. We could at least stay relatively clean, unlike some of my past trips when bathing was rare. But then I had lived through times when bathing yearly was the norm. These arrangements seemed more than adequate.

  “It seems to be a solid structure,” Peter replied. Although his voice was calm and appraising, he was clearly excited. Privately, to us, he was pleased. “Petra, this is perfect. We’ll be close enough to monitor the transactions in the Surratt household. I mean, all of us can do it, not just Kipp.”

  I’m not sure why, but even though he didn’t mean it to sound dismissive, it did, and I saw Kipp’s ears flatten. Elani darted a quick look at Kipp, her tail wagging feebly. Peter, to his credit, showed some sensitivity and caught his error.

  “Kipp, that came out wrong,” he began, stumbling with mending fences with Kipp while simultaneously examining the kitchen level with Mr. Garland. “You have long-distance skills the rest of us clearly don’t, and I guess I was just excited that for once, I could do things on my own.” Peter stretched out his hand. “It was selfish of me.”

  Kipp angled next to him, as Peter ran his hand down Kipp’s broad back. “No, it wasn’t, Peter. Maybe I’m just a little too proud of my uniqueness, and that’s not a good thing.” Kipp fell silent after that remark, and I knew we’d revisit it, just he and I, later that evening.

  The parlor landing was filled with sunlight, which rested on the dusty floor in a checkerboard pattern matching the window frames. The few pieces of furniture scattered about the room would be functional for our needs. We didn’t go to the fourth floor, which was reportedly in shambles. Apparently, the inadequate roof, which gave minimal protection, had allowed water to do extensive damage to the ceiling and woodwork on that upper level. Mr. Garland had made some emergency repairs, but the entire roof and some of the supporting beams needed replacement. That was first on his to-do list.

  “I actually have the work arranged, but it won’t begin until after this winter passes,” he said. “If you and Mrs. Holmes are willing to stay here, of course the rent will be negligible.” Mr. Garland had been excited over the thought he could make money off of a dormant property, but upon walking through it with us, he became embarrassed that he’d try to rent the hulk to anyone, but especially with a lady in residence. Despite the cold in the room, he had a fine sheen of perspiration on his face. I wasn’t sure how that was possible, considering the chill.

  “Mr. Garland, this will fully meet our needs,” I spoke up, concerned he might back out. “I think if we can use the kitchen and this second level, since there are two small rooms in the back of the parlor to serve as bedrooms, it will be more than sufficient. We will have no reason to go to the third or fourth levels at all.” Smiling at him, I willed the circulation to return to my fingers, hoping to generate some warmth. I looked forward to curling up against Kipp that night; he was better than sleeping with a heater.

  “The stoves,” Garland said, indicating a large one in the parlor and referencing the one in the kitchen, “are functional and will supply heat.” He glanced at me, and of course since I was monitoring his thoughts, it was apparent he found me to be an attractive female and felt kindly towards me. I looked away, catching Peter in mid-smirk; I narrowed my eyes with a nonverbal expression that clearly expressed my displeasure. Before he could be seen by Mr. Garland, he managed to wipe the expression off his face. Kipp started to tease me, too, before I warned him to carefully consider his other options. Elani sighed deeply. She was disgusted with the boys and their questionable sense of humor.

  Mr. Garland looked around the parlor again. The old furniture wa
s covered with sheets, resembling ghostly apparitions scattered across the room. Fortunately, the front windows of the parlor were mainly intact and gave us a visual of the entrance to Mary Surratt’s home. Seemingly embarrassed by the sweat on his brow, Mr. Garland discreetly dabbed at his skin with an embroidered handkerchief. As the cloth fluttered, I caught a whiff of some manly fragrance.

  While Peter and Mr. Garland chatted, I wandered to the rear of the parlor level and poked my head in one of the two small rooms. Tiny, but fine from my perspective. I’d lived in some horrible places while shifting, so this seemed very nice…cold, but nice.

  “Don’t worry,” Kipp said. “I’ll keep you warm at night.” He ducked his head under my hand as my fingers tunneled into the thick fur on his neck. “Mmm…that feels good,” he murmured.

  “So, because I can’t wait until later, what was that exchange you had with Peter?” There was a narrow bed pushed against the side of the wall, and I sat on it tentatively, hoping it was sound and that I wouldn’t crash through to land on the floor in a tangled heap. Kipp sat, too, after quickly assessing the floor surface for debris. The bed was so low to the floor that Kipp was at eye level with me. It didn’t take long to view the room; other than the bed, there was a battered bureau, a straight-backed chair that looked predictably uncomfortable, and a mirror on the wall that promised a distorted reflection of oneself, like one of those trick mirrors at a carnival or sideshow. The wallpaper, which had faded so much the pattern on its surface was unrecognizable, was peeling away from the wall. There was no window, and the room felt like a tomb. There was an oil-burning lamp on a small corner table, so at least I wouldn’t have to grope in the darkness.

  “Is there something called false pride?” Kipp asked, turning his head slightly.

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “Well, it’s not a good quality, and I think I have it.”