A Conspiracy to Murder, 1865

by T. L. B. Wood

  “Your turn to decide,” Kipp said to me. “This is a decision for an experienced traveler, and that’s you, Petra.”

  Of course, I trusted Kipp completely and knew he was not coddling me or giving me a false positive comment just to boost my ego, which seemed to be fragile of late. He spoke from his heart. The temptation to spend some time with Lincoln was overwhelming and none of us would, in our lifetimes, get another chance such as this. But we’d have to be careful, very careful.

  I nodded my head at Peter. It seemed we were committed.

  Twenty

  “Lincoln is a complicated man,” Kipp began.

  We were back in the townhouse trying to process what the lupines had gathered from their contact with the man as well as examine our best path to proceed forward. We couldn’t allow ourselves to become diverted from our primary focus of this trip, and that was to examine the motives and actions of one Mary Surratt.

  “Mary Lincoln is consumed with consulting spiritualists and mediums,” Kipp continued, “the like of which bother him, since he is a man of reason. But that being said, there is a degree to which he believes in the prophecy of dreams and portents. There are issues from his childhood which he carries on a daily basis. There is, after all these years, still a nagging resentment and dislike of his father, which he tried unsuccessfully to leave behind. He also has lingering depression over the death of his mother despite the affection he had for his stepmother, who cherished him and encouraged his love of learning.”

  Kipp rose, walked over to the stove in the parlor and, after circling, plopped down again. He glanced at the front windows, which were covered in early morning frost that spread like fine lace over the rippled, imperfect glass. “For all his gregarious nature, and he likes people, he has the ability to be calculating in his relationships as well as manipulative. His folksy approach is part genuine and part something else, I think.” Kipp sighed. “His mind is brilliant, and he occasionally is frustrated at those around him who can’t match the way his mind works.” He glanced at Elani, wanting her impressions from her physical fact-gathering abilities.

  Elani was stretched out in a faded patch of light that managed to draw forth the depth of colors hidden in the gray. As I gazed at her, I fancied I could see some blues, purples, and even pinks lurking amongst the hairs of her dense pelt. She caught me looking and wagged her tail. I knew I wasn’t half as nice in appearance as she gazed at my face. She was a pretty girl, while I’d been told on more than one occasion over my four hundred plus years that my nose was too big and made my face seem unbalanced. Harrow had liked it, I recalled, almost with a sniff of disdain at all the others who hadn’t. It was nice to find a man who had cherished the imperfect and somehow made it perfect in his mind. Love did that sort of thing.

  “He is a good man, wanting to do the right thing for his family and others,” she opined. “I felt this rush of endless curiosity, the busyness of an eternally questing mind, and, hidden beneath, the concern that maybe he could fail.” She glanced at me. “And there is a surge of grief, loneliness that is the underpinning of it all. Despite his being surrounded by others, he has always felt lonely and has a very small circle of people who he considers to be friends. The spiritual side of his nature is conflicted, too, and he has questions about what happens after this life.”

  Reaching to the table, I picked up my daffodil teacup and took a sip of the rapidly cooling brew. There was the broken half of one of Mrs. Fitzgerald’s wonderful tea cakes, and I crumbled the edge and took a bite, savoring the gentle wash of sweetness on my tongue. Peter gestured at the teapot, signaling he could refill my cup, but I brushed off his gesture. Although we were committed to engage with Lincoln to some degree, the process worried me.

  “I agreed to this because the thought of spending time with such an important historical figure was simply too compelling to refuse. But we all must concede this is dangerous territory, and for many reasons. First, we cannot do anything that will affect the timeline, so our footprint must be cautious, deliberate, and light. And we must remind ourselves that our mandate for this trip is to follow the thoughts and behaviors of Mary Surratt. For all we might like to get diverted, Lincoln is merely a player in this drama.” I felt my forehead crumple in a frown. I’d agreed to this potential mess as the elder—allegedly wiser due to my experience—and now had second thoughts.

  “Well, I think we did the right thing by telling him that I would be willing to meet with Tad at the Soldiers’ Home a few times per week,” Peter began. “The White House would be much too visible a place, and we will be less likely to encounter Booth or any of his confederates if we are out of town. True, there was the time when Booth tried to kidnap Lincoln on his way to and from the Soldiers’ Home, but there is no evidence that he stalked the actual residence there, and we can try to come and go unseen.”

  I felt restless and stood, brushing out the wrinkles in my skirt with my hands. “Let’s go for a walk,” I suggested. “I’d like to see Ford’s Theatre.”

  It was cold, but the sky was clear as we set out. Maybe because the weather was nice and the roads were not their usual muddy selves, there seemed to be an escalation in activity, and people bustled almost shoulder to shoulder to be about their business. We paused as an overloaded wagon passed us carrying fresh-cut pine trees; the scent of pine sap lingered, making a nice contrast to the other less pleasant smells of too many people and animals crowded in too small a place. Thankfully, a weather front had passed through Washington, taking with it the usual pungent odors from the polluted rivers; that smell tended to hover, captured if as within a dome by the low hanging clouds, magnified exponentially when it was raining. The wagon was pulled by a team of draft horses that seemed almost bored with the challenge, their docked tails flicking against their rumps in annoyance. It only took a few minutes before we paused to face the theatre that would house infamy. I lifted my hands to my cheeks, feeling them flush with unexpected emotion. The building had been rebuilt after a fire destroyed the original in 1862. Although it was still early in the day, the taverns which flanked the playhouse on either side—Taltavul’s Star Saloon and Greenback Saloon—were already engaged in robust business, and I heard voices fueled by inebriation.

  I probably shouldn’t have been surprised to see John Wilkes Booth emerge from the theatre, a sheaf of papers in his hands. He was known to collect his mail which was delivered to Ford’s, where he was a well-known figure. His head lifted as he saw us, a smile crossing his face in recognition as his eyes met mine.

  “Is this coincidence or bad luck?” Peter asked. “We seem to be stumbling over people all the time.”

  “It’s a small town,” I replied, shrugging my shoulders while stepping into my role.

  “Why, Mrs. Holmes and Mr. Keaton,” Booth said, crossing the street to approach us, strolling gracefully. Knowing the rules of the day, he whipped off his hat in respect of my presence. “Such a lovely day made even nicer by meeting the both of you again.” Booth’s charm offensive was in full display as he leaned forward to grasp Peter’s hand in a firm, but not too firm, handshake. It was just the correct pressure expected in conventional society, another sign of a well-practiced man. Booth turned to me and took my hand gently, bowing over it; as he did so, I caught the light fragrance of the pomade in his black hair. I hoped he wouldn’t kiss the back of it, and he didn’t. I felt myself gently exhale the breath I was holding.

  “He’s good,” Kipp murmured, moving closer to my side. Kipp had a natural protectiveness of me that couldn’t be overridden by logic or reason. It was clear he didn’t care for Booth as did none of the rest of us. There wasn’t much there to like. He was an angry, manipulative man filled with rage and calculation. About the best I could manage would be to feel badly about such a twisted soul and wonder about the loneliness of such a journey in life.

  Elani, however, showed what being a symbiont is all about, as she angled next to Booth so she could entice him to stroke her fur. I admired her for
sticking to our business. The idea of his hands on me gave me the creeps. Booth, of course, couldn’t help himself as he laid his hand lightly upon Elani’s soft head and caressed her ears. I watched her eyes drift shut in concentration. Maybe there was one thing positive to say about Booth…he apparently liked dogs.

  “May I offer to be of assistance on this beautiful day?” Booth was taking it a bit over the top before I realized why he was so freaking happy. He had received communication from Dr. Mudd and was excited over his anticipated meeting with John Surratt. From his perspective, pieces of the puzzle of his life were quickly falling into place. It was with effort I kept my lips from turning down in a frown.

  “Thank you, Mr. Booth, but we have an engagement and chose to walk rather than ride, since the weather is so lovely,” Peter smoothly responded.

  “Well, you are looking at a fine theatre,” Booth remarked, sweeping his hand to indicate Ford’s. “I often play here,” he said, adding, “I hope to excellent reviews.” He laughed with pretend modesty, but it was all an act. At that point in his life, almost every interaction, other than those which reflected his anger at the political situation in the country, was a manipulative effort to be seen as a charming man. But the roiling hatred within him almost wafted off his body as a stench, and it was all I could do not to recoil. Being a telepath in the presence of such people can be a difficult business.

  Kipp looked up at him, tilting his head to the side like a curious dog might do. “I still don’t get why a person would let his mind get mired in such evil thoughts,” he said. “I can’t stay with him for long because it makes me feel bad.”

  I agreed, my hand reaching down to soothe Kipp, running my hand along his broad back. “Don’t do it then,” I cautioned him. “We probably will only make brief visits to determine his intent and then let him stew.” Glancing down at Kipp, I added, “I can’t imagine his existence is a happy one. He has no control over the world which, from his perspective, needs attention. His perspective, however, is based on warped and evil notions, so all he can do is spin helplessly, filled with rage.”

  We were to go to the Soldiers’ Home late that afternoon, where Lincoln planned on having Tad brought so that Peter could try and engage the impulsive lad. Mary Lincoln had departed for New York for her shopping spree, and John Wilkes Booth’s meeting with John Surratt was a couple of days away. So I felt we were on sound footing to continue as planned. There was a risk we’d be spotted going to and from the home, but the Confederate spies typically would be watching for Lincoln’s comings and goings, and we were nobodies. The only stirrings we’d felt from the Surratt household were minor disturbances when Mary and John would argue over his involvement in surreptitious activities for the Confederate government. But all of that was known to us, and John Surratt was not engaged in any active plots involving Booth at that time.

  So, as the day began to wind down, we hopped in the hired carriage, and Peter led the horse out of the city, north, for the three-mile trek to the Soldiers’ Home. A steady breeze from the north was chilling, and I noticed clouds gathering on the horizon that seemed heavy with the threat of rain. As we moved along, the clouds seemed to dip lower until they clung to the tops of the darkening tree line, the almost black evergreens looking like tent poles holding up the canopy.

  The Soldiers’ Home was a huge campus comprised of extensive acreage where buildings were in use to house injured soldiers as well as veterans needing care. One building, quaintly called a cottage, had become Lincoln’s home away from home and served as the White House during the months when Washington, due to its proximity to a swamp, was unbearable. A man met us at the door, and he introduced himself as John Hay, one of Lincoln’s secretaries; he looked like a teenager, his handsome face smooth and unlined, despite the stress of his job and his constant worry over the well being of Lincoln. He was irritated he’d had to bring Tad, feeling like being a baby sitter for the boy was not in his job description. But such was his love for Lincoln as well as his loyalty, that he bit back any arguments and brought the rambunctious boy to the cottage. As we exchanged introductions, I walked into the cottage, amazed that it would be called such. Mary Lincoln had extensively renovated the fourteen rooms, and the pretty, feminine wallpaper was fresh, the paintings on the wall in fashionably good taste. The ceilings were high enough that the rooms felt open, and I realized what a pleasant contrast the rooms were to the White House where the halls and corridors were crowded and often chaotic with people hovering for an audience.

  “The President will be along later this evening,” Hay said, fingering his hat, clearly itching to leave. Society was different then, and Lincoln had immediately trusted his judgment and was fine with leaving his son with a couple of strangers. I watched Hay flee in relief as he galloped his horse down the road we’d traveled, the animal’s hooves throwing up clods of dirt in its haste.

  Tad, from his perspective, was delighted to see us and spent the first hour romping on the hillsides with Kipp and Elani. I figured if we exhausted some of that boundless energy, which got caught up in mischievous acts, the boy would be more amenable to learning. As I watched from the window, however, I wondered if Tad would outlast the lupines. Kipp was looking a mite fatigued as he chased the ball for the umpteenth time. I tried not to laugh as I followed his grumbling thoughts about why humans thought it was so amusing to throw a ball for a dog to chase to the point of utter exhaustion.

  Lincoln had asked Hay to bring some supplies so that Peter could have a makeshift classroom. While Peter looked for a suitable room, I shamelessly wandered, poking my nose where it didn’t belong. Actually, dust covers were in place, the exceptions being the room that served as a library and one bedroom, which Lincoln probably occupied when he slept over, seeking refuge from the White House, which was no home to the man. Hay had a worker start a fire in the large fireplace in the library, and a selection of cold foods was set out on a small buffet table. Lincoln, who was known to eat a single egg for breakfast, was a notoriously light eater who picked over his meals. I tried not to laugh as Peter began to bargain with Tad, who seemed to be an expert at getting his way. Yes, he could play with Elani while he learned his alphabet and practiced writing the letters. I wasn’t sure that child-rearing was in Peter’s wheelhouse, but then he’d had no experience, and I had to applaud his gameness.

  Kipp, exhausted, joined me in the library as I perused the bookshelf, fascinated, as always, by an expansive selection of books, many of which were no longer in print. Reaching up, I found a bound collection of some of Shakespeare’s tragic plays. Well, that would make for some light reading, I thought, my mouth twisting with humor.

  “That Tad is a hot mess,” Kipp said, flopping on the floor, his sides heaving with his breaths. “His mind is completely undisciplined, darting from one thing to another, no focus at all!”

  “Remember he is a child, Kipp,” I reminded my friend gently.

  “Count me out for fatherhood, then,” Kipp replied grimly. “I don’t think I’m cut out for it.”

  While Peter and Elani were stuck with Tad, I selected the most comfortable chair in the room and began to read. The air held the scent of lemon furniture polish and a subtle hint of old, sweet cigar smoke, perhaps from past gatherings Lincoln had held in the room. Of course, it was not long before I dozed off, warmed by the gentle flames in the fireplace, the bound volume of Shakespeare heavy in my lap. Kipp, too, had fallen into a deep sleep, snoring softly. I awoke with a start, as a hand gently touched my shoulder.

  “I didn’t mean to alarm you,” a now-familiar voice said. “But I didn’t want you to awaken and see me sitting here, unannounced,” Lincoln said.

  I sat up in the chair, massaging my neck, which had a serious crick after I’d slept, my head tilted, for who knows how long. Please, I thought, don’t let there be a slobber of drool on my face.

  “No, you’re okay,” Kipp said, acting as my wingman.

  Glancing towards the windows, I realized darkness had fall
en in the rapid, unexpected way of short winter days. I started to stand, but Lincoln waved me back, smiling.

  “You look very comfortable, Mrs. Holmes,” he said. “May I get you something?” Lincoln walked over to the table, and I realized that when he arrived, someone must have quietly refreshed the offerings, because a crockery pitcher, its sides glistening with moisture, was now on the table. “I have a hankering for buttermilk and finds it helps the digestion,” Lincoln remarked, turning to smile again at me.

  “I actually love buttermilk.” I bit off my next words which would have been confusing to the man, since I started to add it was difficult to find the real thing in my modern world. In his world, all buttermilk was the real thing.

  It would be something to be remembered in my old age, being served a glass of buttermilk by Abraham Lincoln, who then took a chair opposite mine, stretching his feet towards the fireplace. I recalled he suffered with cold hands and feet and figured if I gave him permission, he’d do what was natural for him.

  “Sir, will you think me terribly ill-mannered if I remove my shoes and pull my chair a little closer to the fender?” I asked. “My feet tend to get terribly cold during the winter months.” Of course, it was uncouth and not ladylike, but Lincoln was one man who really cared not about such things.

  “Mrs. Holmes, I won’t think you ill-mannered if you don’t think badly of me if I follow your lead.”

  We giggled like children as we pulled off our shoes and scooted our chairs closer to the fender of the fireplace. And I’m grateful that Kipp was an honest witness, because I wouldn’t have thought Abraham Lincoln could giggle, but he did, and when it happened, I saw a glimpse of his long lost childhood and the boy he might have been if only he’d not found grief at such a young age. As I stretched out my feet towards the fire, the warmth felt good on my toes and had a cascading effect on the rest of my body. Kipp watched, having tucked himself in a tight knot, his eyes taking in the activity, his mind curiously calm and distant from mine. I realized he wanted to let the interchange flow naturally between me and Lincoln. I relaxed; the ball was in my court as Lincoln asked me about the play I’d been reading.