A Conspiracy to Murder, 1865

by T. L. B. Wood

  “I think we have plenty of time to trade off,” I replied airily. “And how do you know I don’t prefer Elani anyway? After all, girls rule!”

  “You got that right,” Elani huffed, breathing hard, glaring at Kipp.

  “Actually, trading off is a good thing,” Peter inserted smoothly with a surprising diplomatic turn that I’d not seen before. “That way, Kipp and Elani can learn from both of us and then develop their own unique approaches to the game.”

  I felt mildly vexed I’d not thought of that myself, but it was too late, and if I tried to say anything as a recovery statement, I’d look immature and defensive. There was a distinct part of me that longed for a cup of Earl Grey to share with Fitzhugh. He’d become an unexpectedly solid confidant. Maybe his age gave him that ability, since he’d lived long enough to see and hear it all and rarely could surprise creep up upon him, like a stealthy cat stalking prey.

  I prepared the tea service for Peter and me and loaded the tray with tea cakes, freshly baked courtesy of Maureen’s mother, thinking the lupines would enjoy a snack, too. Peter kindly offered to carry the tray, which was a plus since he didn’t have to navigate the creaky stairs while tugging on the edge of a long skirt. As I followed him up, I could hear the soft wheek wheek sound of his woolen britches. I hoped he didn’t plan on any covert operations where silence was a must. He pulled two chairs to the table and took two pawns, one white and one black, and held his hands behind his back.

  “Choose,” Peter said, smiling.

  I tapped his right arm and was rewarded with the black pawn. Despite our earlier exchanges, Kipp reflexively came to my side while Elani went to Peter. Then, Peter and I took turns explaining the various moves of the pieces. Of course, being telepaths, we were honor bound to not peek at each other’s thoughts as to gain an unfair advantage. And it was probably good Kipp was my partner, because we quickly found that Peter was actually very good, and I was not even adequate. I enjoyed chess, and always had, but played like a child, just making impulsive moves because I liked to see my pieces soar dramatically across the board. Peter played with the needed calculation and ability to see what would transpire three or four moves in advance. In addition, he was my superior in terms of competitiveness, since I’d lost that quality a couple of hundred years ago. So, during the first game, Kipp and I got our butts whipped. Elani looked up at me, her chocolate eyes brimming with sensitivity and emotion. I knew she wanted to apologize, but I just winked at her. She didn’t have the heart of a shark.

  “Do you want to play with Peter this time?” I asked Kipp, knowing his competitive nature.

  “No, you and I are gonna master this,” he replied, his voice confident and sounding a little tough. He was probably channeling the inner, primitive Kipp who once hunted the prehistoric tundra on the continual search for survival. That particular Kipp was relatively unbeatable.

  I wonder if all those who play chess enjoy certain pieces. As I observed my companions, I noticed Elani seemed to have a fondness for the bishop, while Kipp liked the intricate move patterns of the knight, which had the surprise attack quality of a ninja. Simple symbiont that I am, I liked the rook, which reminded me of an old-fashioned ashtray as it blundered along in a straight, unimaginative line. Peter was talented enough to use all the pieces to the utmost, even the little pawn.

  Kipp and I were on our way to victory—with me leaning heavily on an aggressive Kipp—when a tap sounded on the downstairs street-level door. Peter raced down, his footsteps loud and echoing on the staircase, and a minute later shouted that the delivered lunch had arrived. The lupines began to salivate as the fragrance of the food drifted up a level to the parlor. So, we paused for all to convene in the delightfully warm kitchen, which had an intimacy lacking in the well-lit parlor room.

  “What is this?” Kipp asked, his eyes widening at a hunk of meat that had been seared and was covered in tiny potatoes and carrots. He’d eaten beef before, but this was marinated in red wine and had a distinctive scent.

  “Beef roast,” I answered, trying not to laugh at the expression on his face. I hoped the chef had not used too much wine since an inebriated Kipp could prove to be difficult to handle.

  Kipp and Elani, single-handedly, polished off three quarters of the roast, leaving a little wedge for Peter. I stuck to my vegetables as usual, enjoying some sliced fresh-baked bread, also courtesy of Maureen Fitzgerald’s mother. She’d become a valuable player for us, with her availability to do our laundry and also supplementing our diets. We’d not even asked her about cooking for us; she was simply a smart entrepreneur and offered, tempting us first with some wonderful fresh-baked goods. And we paid her very handsomely, so she appreciated us in kind.

  The torrential rain continued, and as the temperature hovered around freezing and occasionally dipped below, the precipitation would occasionally turn to sleet and even snow, the latter of which always fascinated Kipp. So, we lingered in the townhouse, seduced by the warmth from the stoves as well as keeping our bellies full with food. We napped and played chess, and I grew so lazy that it was rather embarrassing. And it was easy to lose track of time, but we didn’t and realized that the fateful meeting between John Wilkes Booth and John Surratt was less than a week away. When that occurred, my laziness would have to transform into action, I reminded myself sternly.

  We awoke to find the skies blue once again, and the temperature outside was tolerable, with a bright sun that had finally broken free on the eastern horizon. The three days of being confined with one another had led to the lupines becoming restless, and Peter and I grew irritated with the small things, such as how he sipped his tea and how I ate the homemade bread supplied by Mrs. Fitzgerald. I’m not sure why pulling the bread apart with my fingers and studying each morsel from different angles before popping it into my mouth agitated him, but it clearly did.

  “If I don’t get outside and run around some, I’m gonna explode,” Kipp finally admitted. “Being stuck here, waiting, is driving me nuts.”

  Since the rest of us felt the same, there were no apologies needed or given, and Peter put on his coat and hat. “I’m going to rent us a horse and buggy for the day,” he said. “We’ll ride out in the country and enjoy the land as well as get some exercise.”

  “Do you know how to drive a horse and buggy?” I asked, hoping there was at least one thing over which I would be his master.

  “Well, to prepare for this trip, I went to a local stable in Durham and took riding lessons as well as learning how to drive a horse pulling a trap. So, yes, I think I’ll manage,” he replied, his tone just a smidgen sharp.

  Kipp stared at me, turning his head slightly, watching my face. After our talk about my becoming irrelevant, he knew my thoughts without having to pry. Kipp was waiting for me, I knew.

  “Peter, that’s great,” I finally replied, somewhat surprised to find that I actually meant it. “Preparing for all eventualities is important to what we do, and I’m glad to see you were thinking ahead.”

  With a pleased flush on his cheeks, he grabbed his hat and disappeared out the front door, Elani at his side, her tail wagging with pleasure. As his bonded companion, she was rightly proud of his accomplishments and growth.

  “So, how was that for you?” Kipp asked, making his way to the kitchen stove where he circled and plopped to the floor where the wooden planks were warmed by the lingering fire. With a soft sigh, he rested his big head on his outstretched paws.

  “Okay,” I replied, sitting at the table. “I think our talk about how I was feeling helped me, Kipp. And I actually thought about past mentors when I was just learning and how they encouraged me, even when I was surpassing what their abilities allowed. I realized it was selfish of me to worry about my need to gear back a little while Peter is in such a growth phase.”

  “Well, if you listen to me more often, issues such as this can be easily managed,” he replied smugly, licking his forepaws as if to put a period on the discussion.

  Peter actually proved
to be a very competent driver, threading a narrow path through the congested streets, as we headed north on Vermont Avenue, which, we all knew, lead to the Soldiers’ Home. It was only a brief interval before the bustle and congestion of Washington dropped away, and we were in the countryside on a dirt road that smacked of rural America. The thick, noxious air of the city dissipated, and I inhaled deeply, smelling the scent of cedars and woodlands. The woods stretched across the softly rolling hillsides, and when one gazed off into the distance, the trees, which had shed their leaves, faded into a blurred wash of gray, with the deep green of pines and cedars jutting out of the ominous darkness of the forest. Occasionally, I would spy an American Beech, which was a favorite of mine. Their leaves, dead from the change of seasons, still clung to the long, low hanging branches where they trembled in the breeze, the colors shifting as the leaves twisted and turned from weathered silver to dull tan. As a gentle wind from the northeast stirred those pale leaves, they began to chatter, speaking to us as dead things animated to life against an otherwise silent fringe of trees. We saw movement along the edge of the woods as a small group of whitetail deer dashed for the deeper areas of brush, their tails flashing like signal flags as they fled. It was cold that day, and I edged over on the seat of the buggy to link my arm with Peter’s. He glanced at me and a tentative smile crossed his face.

  “A little brisk,” he remarked, lifting a dark eyebrow.

  Peter gently eased the mare that was pulling our buggy to a stop so that the lupines could stretch their legs and run, unopposed. I decided to descend also, allowing Peter to take my arm and assist so that my skirts wouldn’t cause me to stumble and go flying to the ground. Pulling my woolen shawl closely around my shoulders, I wandered onto the grassy verge, glancing around with curiosity at the flora and fauna, such that it was, that inhabited the area in 1864. So much of the surrounding territory had been damaged by the war that it was nice to walk on land that remained natural and untouched. Off in the distance, Kipp and Elani were racing along the tree line, his ruddy auburn coat a sharp contrast to the dead foliage, while Elani’s ethereal gray blended so well that she seemed to vanish at times. Overhead, a cloud crossed the path of the sun, causing an unexpected darkness to fall across the land before being chased rapidly to disappear beyond the tree line.

  Peter grasped my arm, pointing ahead. A man on horseback approached. He was distant still but coming towards us as a brisk trot. It was clear he would reach us before we could recall the lupines. Peter and I exchanged glances, and I shrugged. We’d just say howdy-do and the man would move on. But as he came closer, I felt a creeping anxiety, almost like a hand clutching my throat. Not again, I thought. Yes, there was a figure dressed in black, wearing a tall, classic stovepipe hat. And his posture on the horse suggested he was a man of great height. As the man pulled his horse to a halt, he stared down at us before seeming to recognize it was ill-mannered to not recognize a lady in his presence.

  His face was unmistakable, the face possibly one of the most recognizable in history. As he dismounted from his horse, I marveled over how someone so tall could descend with such grace. It was easy to forget he’d been raised in a home where hard, physical labor was demanded of him and led to a lifetime of strength and agility.

  “Well, hello,” Abraham Lincoln said, pausing to sweep the tall hat off his head. “It’s not often I encounter travelers on this road,” he added, smiling. His voice was surprisingly high pitched.

  Peter and I exchanged glances and decided to play stupid. “Hello to you, sir,” Peter replied, pulling his hat off his head almost as an afterthought. “I’m Peter Keaton, and this is my sister, Petra Holmes.” He lifted his arm, pointing to the edge of the woods where the lupines were racing. “We brought our dogs out from the city so they could run a bit.”

  A breeze ruffled Lincoln’s dark hair, which he wore a little long that day, the ends drifting over his collar. I had the idle thought wondering if his wife, Mary, trimmed it for him, betting she did. Wrinkles were set deeply in his flesh, making his complexion uneven. His eyes were gray and direct as he assessed us in his measured, deliberate way. After a brief moment, he turned toward where the lupines stood, gazing back at us. Kipp and Elani were clearly astonished and beat a hasty return to our sides. In my head, I could hear Kipp muttering, “Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.”

  “I’m Lincoln,” he said, using his preference of being called by his last name. “And you must be the people with the amazing dogs,” he added, laughing. “My son, Tad, told me about meeting you.” He thrust his hands in the pockets of his frock coat, which was rumpled and looked as if he might have slept in it. I noticed he wore no greatcoat, despite the chill in the air.

  Kipp arrived and, after wagging his tail at Lincoln, began his deep dive into the mind of the man. Elani, after a glance at Peter as if gaining his approval, moved close to Lincoln, allowing him to pet her head and thump her sides. Both lupines would share their observations with us at a later time.

  “You’ve caused me a bit of trouble, young man,” Lincoln said, laughing again, wagging his finger playfully at Peter. “Tad has bothered me since that day, demanding I find him a puppy.” He gazed at Kipp. “I don’t think I’ve seen dogs like these.” I watched his long, slender fingers tunnel into Elani’s silver-gray fur as he massaged her flesh and gently pulled at her large, upright ears.

  “They are Siberian Deerstalkers,” I replied, smiling. “Rather rare here, I think.”

  “Well, I think Tad would be happy with any sort of mongrel,” Lincoln remarked. “The goat has not been a sufficient diversion for him.” He sighed, and I followed his thoughts to the tragic burning of the White House stable when both Tad and Willie’s ponies had been killed. Lincoln was no more able to heal Tad’s pain than he was that of his wife. The scars of the burdens were carved into his face, his shoulders carrying both the stress from the ongoing war as well as the injuries to his household.

  It became clear that Lincoln was an affable man who liked to, well, chat. His days were filled with conflict, agonizing decisions, and stress, so merely chewing the fat with a couple of strangers was pleasing to him. He was a practiced storyteller, enjoying the expressions on the faces of his audience. His horse, which was pretty unremarkable, seemed to enjoy the rest, too, and leaned its body weight against Lincoln until the man moved. I noticed the horse, a clever beast, moved, too, shifting its weight again against its master.

  “And where do you hail from?” Lincoln asked, staring down at me. He was at least a foot taller than was I.

  “From Tennessee, sir,” I answered. He’d not mentioned he was the president, and I decided to keep my address of him neutral.

  “Ah, Tennessee. A beautiful part of the country,” he murmured, smiling, but his thoughts were sad when he considered all the scars that had been inflicted due to the war. Lincoln rocked back on his heels, stretching his back slightly.

  “And you, young man?” He directed his gray eyes towards Peter, who was trying not to be star struck.

  “I just returned fairly recently from London where I worked for the Times,” Peter said, lying adroitly. “My sister was in need of companionship, and we hope to make our way out west, perhaps to California.”

  “I’ve not been that far west myself, but I hear from people I know”—and he was thinking of Grant as well as Sherman—"that the western coastal areas are quite lovely. There is lots of land to be had for the taking,” he added. “However, it is a difficult journey and not for the faint of heart.” His head turned, as did ours, as another rider approached from the road he’d just traveled. It was not long before that rider, an unkempt looking man wearing a slouch hat, his coat only half buttoned against his chest, pulled up his horse.

  “Mr. President,” the man began. “I’ve asked you to wait for me,” he said, almost whining.

  “All is well, John,” Lincoln answered the man, waving his hand in an irritated gesture. He glanced back at us and raised his shoulders in an almost sheepish gesture
and with no explanations.

  “That man is John Parker,” Peter hissed to me privately, having done his own little detective work.

  I immediately took a dislike to the man, since it was due to his neglect on the night of the assassination that Booth had such easy entry to the presidential box at Ford’s theater. Later investigations cleared him of any part in the conspiracy, but the timing had been uniquely opportunistic, and if he’d been at his post instead of drinking ale at Taltavul’s Star Saloon, there would have been a likely different outcome on that fateful night. The other bodyguard, William Crook, shared my low opinion of Parker, who stared first at Peter then at me with his tiny, red-rimmed, rheumy eyes. He’d already hit the bottle that morning, too, unbeknownst to Lincoln, who seemed to have a neutral opinion of the man.

  “Mrs. Lincoln is planning a trip to New York City to shop for gewgaws and other such things, and she has it in her head to take Tad with her. But I might just hatch a little plan of my own, with the help of you two and your pretty doggies,” Lincoln said, pursing his lips as he thought. “Tad is awfully recalcitrant in terms of his studies and has made more than one tutor throw up his hands in surrender. I was thinking you, young man, since you are a man of letters,” he said, nodding at Peter, “could spend some time with him on his reading and ciphers, the lure being your nice doggies.” His gray eyes were drawn upward as a flock of geese flew overhead in a perfect V formation; his lips twitched in a smile as he followed them until they were lost over the wood line. His mind filled with an almost poetic admiration of their freedom and effortless ability to escape the war and all its tribulations.

  Peter stared at me, not sure what to do. We’d just had an unexpected curve ball lobbed in our direction and had to take care, lest we alter history in some measurable way. For all our studies, I’d not paid attention to whether or not Tad went with his mother on her grand tour, and it could have gone either way, although I suspected he’d gone. We’d already affected the timeline from our very presence as well as this unfortunate meeting. Kipp and I exchanged glances, and he could have nodded, but he held back.