A Conspiracy to Murder, 1865

by T. L. B. Wood

  “Why, Mr. Booth! How pleasant to see you,” I added, smiling at him. “May I help you?”

  He actually whipped the hat off his dark head in spontaneous courtesy, as did Lewis Powell, who hulked behind him, a large, malignant presence. I glanced at Powell’s once handsome face that had been injured in a long ago accident; his mind was that of a killer, one who enjoyed such acts. Booth stumbled for a moment, trying to decide how to proceed, since he didn’t want to reveal his true intentions and loyalties.

  “Is your brother here?” he asked.

  “Why, no, Mr. Booth. He actually has gone to the train depot to check on tickets for us,” I replied, thinking quickly.

  “Are you leaving town?” he purred as his dark eyes examined my face.

  “Yes, relatively soon. We are headed west to set up a home,” I replied.

  He moved forward a step, and it was all I could do not to retreat. Kipp pushed up beside me, giving me support.

  “I came to tell you that I think it is time you and your brother leave town,” Booth said. His face darkened a little as he frowned at me. “This town is a dangerous place for outsiders. It’s really not a healthy environment for some people,” he added. “And you and your brother seem to be in a lot of people’s business, and that’s not healthy, either.” The part of the man that was enraged was starting to simmer, and he took another step forward. Although he was not a man given to violence against women, the thought flashed through his mind to strike me as if to convince me I needed to get out of town, and quickly. I think, more than anything, the aggressive impulse towards me was another indicator of his increasing instability. He wasn’t sure of our intentions, but he wanted us gone so that our presence wouldn’t annoy and distract him from his purpose. Behind him, Powell was grinning at me, enjoying the spectacle.

  Kipp, in response to Booth’s veiled verbal threat as well as his thoughts, began to growl, and I realized it was completely involuntary on his part. When Booth heard the sound, he retreated a step, and Powell’s hand found the butt of his navy Colt revolver. They both saw my eyes drift to the gun.

  “Kipp, stop it,” I hissed, realizing Powell was on the edge of shooting him.

  The rumbling stopped, but Powell, just for meanness and to frighten me, began to slowly pull the gun. Killing a dog to make a point with me didn’t bother him at all; in fact, he enjoyed the temporary power he felt he had over me.

  “You will not shoot my dog,” I said, moving slightly to give Kipp cover behind me. “He will not hurt you.” They would have to shoot me to get to Kipp, I thought grimly.

  Booth’s hand moved as if to stay Powell, and I saw the gun slowly slide back in the holster. “How is it your brother knows the son of the president?” he asked. Booth’s dark eyes were boring into my face, hoping to intimidate me. He didn’t realize he’d led me just where I wanted to go.

  “Mr. Booth, that is by way of an odd coincidence, and nothing more than that. My brother and I have been going to the Soldiers’ Home to read to a friend of my father. While there, we accidentally met the boy, and my brother was asked by Mr. John Hay to help him learn his ciphering and letters.” I changed the expression on my face to one of fake vulnerability. “We, quite honestly, needed the money, and work is difficult to find in such an overcrowded city.”

  “Good job,” Kipp breathed. “He’s starting to relax a little.” Kipp was preparing to intervene and manipulate Booth’s thoughts if needed, but it appeared the looming disaster was abating on its own.

  “Mr. Booth, I injured my ankle yesterday, and I hate to be rude, but I fear my ankle is painful and throbbing, so if there is nothing else with which I can help you, I truly need to rest.” I was done with the man and his henchman, Powell, since Powell still had his fingers on the handle of the revolver. True, he’d stopped thinking of shooting Kipp, but that could change in an instant. One thing symbionts couldn’t foresee was impulsivity.

  “I’m sorry to hear of your injury, Mrs. Holmes,” Booth remarked insincerely as he replaced his hat on his head. “And I hope you and your brother enjoy your exploration of new territory.” He smiled, the expression fake and, he hoped, intimidating. “I think this city is too crowded for you to remain here and be content and,” he paused dramatically for a moment before adding, “safe.”

  “And I agree, sir.”

  As they walked down the steps, I almost collapsed with relief, as I limped back to my chair.

  “And what was that stunt of getting in front of me?” Kipp demanded.

  “Do you really need to ask?” I replied.

  Twenty-Seven

  Peter and Elani were disappointed they’d missed the visit by Booth, although I think it could have gone badly if Peter had been there. Booth had brought Powell to, well, rough up Peter if needed. And even though Booth had a sudden notion to slap me, he hadn’t, and I was not really their target on that day. But Kipp and I both believed we’d done all we could to preserve the timeline. And we would stay out of Booth’s way, for certain.

  On that day he visited Kipp and me, April 12th, he’d finalized the plan he’d been nursing privately, and that was to move from kidnapping to assassination. Booth had been cleverly grooming the others for such a shift, mentioning his hatred of Lincoln and his fervent wish that Lincoln would die, but he’d not actually proposed the murder of the man. General Ulysses Grant was also in Washington, and Booth hoped to catch both men together and kill them in one action. Although I was busy navigating rough waters while engaged with a staredown with Booth, I was able to trace some of his stray thoughts that included the simultaneous killings of the secretary of state as well as the vice president. Such an action would cause chaos in the government and, Booth hoped, give the crumbling Confederacy time to reform and plan. He also envisioned himself become a hero of the Confederacy, and he would enjoy the fame he’d sought for years.

  “One thing saddens me,” Peter remarked, as he sipped at a cup of tea after blowing carefully on the rim.

  “What?” I asked. It was a fact we left things accumulated behind, and I had the frivolous thought that I would miss my pretty daffodil tea set. Fitzhugh would have enjoyed serving from it during his morning tea.

  “I won’t have a chance to say goodbye to Tad,” he said.

  At that moment, there was a tap on the downstairs door; Peter raced down the staircase, his footsteps loud and echoing. As he returned to the room, he wore an expression of amazement.

  “It’s a message from Lincoln, asking if I can be at the Soldiers’ Home this afternoon to work with Tad.” Peter’s eyes rounded. “Is that a coincidence or what?”

  “Well, not from Lincoln’s perspective,” I replied. “With their trip to Virginia and everything going on with the end of the war, it’s been a while since Tad had a lesson. Lincoln is just being a good parent and seeing to his son.” Pausing, I waited for Peter to tell us his reply to the summons.

  “I said yes.” He lowered his head as if he feared I might disapprove.

  “That is probably a good thing,” I remarked, trying not to smile at the expression on his face. “If you can arrange a carriage so we can surreptitiously leave town, it will be a good day to do so. Tomorrow is when everything heats up.”

  “I know we aren’t supposed to get emotionally involved, and I don’t think I have to a great degree, but it seems unkind to disappear and not say goodbye to Tad.” Peter’s dark eyes found mine. “After all, he is about to lose his father, who he adores, tomorrow.”

  Kipp and Elani were lying close together in front of the stove. I’d noticed more of that since Elani practiced some of her physical empathic skills with him. Purposely, he kept the part of his mind that dealt with his feelings about Elani blocked from me, and I didn’t push the issue. I couldn’t help but wonder if there was a future love connection between the two, and I also wondered if I’d be the last to know. Kipp knew I was thinking about him and shot me a big mental frown across the room. Hastily, I sipped my tea.

  “Let’s ge
t ready.” I stood and retreated to my room to get dressed.

  The message stated that Tad would be at the cottage by four o’clock that afternoon. Peter paid a boy to go fetch a carriage and have it delivered a couple of blocks from the townhouse. As we were leaving, I heard a voice call my name. It was Mary Surratt, accompanied by Louis Weichmann, and we saw she had a buggy waiting in front of her townhouse.

  “Why, Mrs. Holmes,” she began before correcting herself. “I mean, Petra,” she said with a smile. “And, Mr. Keaton, how nice to see you, too.” She seemed relaxed as she glanced up at the sunny sky, smiling, and squinting slightly as the brightness of the sun overwhelmed her afflicted eyes. “Mr. Weichmann and I are planning on enjoying a nice ride to the country,” she added.

  Her planned journey fell exactly where it was supposed to on the timeline. On April 11th, she had gone to the tavern to allegedly check on the guns that were being stockpiled. The lupines determined that she’d been manipulated into thinking that her family could be at risk due to their confederate sympathies and that arming themselves was a must. As we delved into her thoughts, it was clear as of that day, April 13th, she was aware that Booth and his sympathizers were working on a plan to kidnap Lincoln. Booth had gone out of his way, in her presence, to emphasize that Lincoln would not be harmed. But she was not being completely truthful with us, and why should she? Coming closer, she pressed my hand between her two. She had not yet donned her gloves, and her flesh felt warm and dry against mine. We stepped closer to the edge of the road as a lumber dray passed; the smell of sweaty horses overwhelmed the soft scent of lavender that seemed to be a part of Mary Surratt. She winced, just a mite, as the driver of the wagon shouted some ribald comment to the backside of his horses. Mary Surratt was not one to appreciate vulgarities.

  “I truly hope you enjoy this lovely weather,” Mary said, regaining her composure.

  I realized after our talk about children she felt kindly towards me despite the fact our connections had been few and far between. John had warned her against any alliances with strangers, but what was the risk of a woman and her dog, Mary had wondered. And she’d been careful to conceal the inner workings of the household.

  “Perhaps we can enjoy tea again, next week?” she asked.

  “Yes, please, let’s do,” I responded, forcing an artificial smile on my face. No, we wouldn’t share tea. Mary would be imprisoned by the next week, and she’d be executed by summer. Her blinding loyalty to her son and her manipulation at the hands of a clever, cunning John Wilkes Booth had led her to this point. Yes, she had confederate sympathies, but she was no assassin and would not have supported such an act. But she would pay for it with her life while her son failed to come to her defense and remained hidden away. Kipp pushed close to me, using his body as a physical link, although symbionts didn’t need such a thing with our telepathic abilities. Nevertheless, it felt good.

  Elani stepped forward, gently bumping Mary with her broad head, inviting a caress. Her fur was warmed by the afternoon sun, and Mary smiled as her fingers combed the dense fur, enjoying the sensation against her skin. Elani used the moment for another brief flash of insight into the woman.

  “I told you, Petra, I do intend to get a dog of my own. You’ve made me into a convert with your well-behaved doggies.” Mary laughed politely.

  Weichmann helped her into her carriage, and they disappeared down the crowded street, their horse moving slowly against the flow of traffic. I glanced at Elani and realized she felt the same as did I. An injustice was about to take place, and it was difficult to sit back and let it happen. Mary Surratt might be guilty of many things, but she did not conspire to assassinate the president. But sitting back and allowing history to unfold was what we did and would always do.

  As Peter drove the carriage out to the cottage for the last time, I relaxed, happy he’d learned how to guide a horse and buggy so I could sightsee. The trees, which had been naked and starkly gray all winter, were budding with bright green foliage, the new growth of spring. There was a wind brushing along the edge of the tree line, and I detected the faint fragrance of some flowering plant; there was a sweetness in the air that I could taste on my tongue. Our passage startled a large flock of birds feeding amongst the grass, and they took flight, their wings causing a great rushing sound in the air. Momentarily, they blocked the light, causing a shadow against the blue sky.

  As usual, when we arrived, a worker had laid out some cold refreshment, an obvious gesture of thoughtfulness by Lincoln. One would have thought he had too many things on his crowded plate to worry about our comfort, but apparently not. I spied the pitcher of buttermilk, an added kind touch, since he knew I enjoyed it so much. Odd, the buttermilk almost unhinged me, and I felt the sting of tears behind my eyes.

  “What’s wrong?” Peter asked. The wind had disturbed his thick hair, which fell in strands across his brow. His hands found the watch chain across his chest as he fingered the links, his face searching mine.

  “Just a little sad, I think,” I replied, patting his arm. My hand went to his brow where I smoothed his hair into submission.

  Tad was already in residence, and he raced outside with Elani and Kipp to play before he’d be forced to settle down and focus. The weather was exceptional, cool but not cold, and a stand of wild dogwoods in bloom stood silent watch on the grounds of the Soldiers’ Home. Close to the cottage, lilac bushes, ancient and towering, were covered with pale lavender blooms, the scent billowing inside as Peter closed the door.

  “It’s going to always be like this, isn’t it?” Peter asked. He’d followed me to the library.

  I deciphered his meaning as I removed my green wool wrap and draped it on the back of a chair. “Yes, Peter. The engagement and the subsequent leaving are almost like a personal loss. No matter how unpleasant certain aspects will be during a time-shift, you will make connections that will be missed when you return home.”

  “It feels like a rollercoaster,” he remarked.

  “An apt analogy,” I replied, lifting a dark eyebrow.

  My ankle was still sore from having turned it, so I chose my favorite chair in the library and sat. Peter thoughtfully pulled up a padded ottoman and helped me to elevate the limb. He poured me a glass of buttermilk and, at my direction, pulled Othello from the bookshelf. I felt like a queen.

  Even though the temperatures outside were becoming more tolerable, the library at the cottage remained cold and drafty, and the servant who’d supplied the refreshments had also laid a fire. Maybe there is something about the crackling sound and radiating warmth as well as the smell of wood smoke, but I just fell asleep, despite my attempts to rouse myself. Kipp was stretched out on the floor, tired after Tad’s antics, and Peter and Elani had herded the child into the makeshift classroom.

  “And I knew I’d find her reading, or trying to read,” a voice tinged with amusement woke me from my dreamless slumbers.

  Kipp was sitting up, wagging his tail, which brushed a semi-circle on the wooden floor. He slowly closed one eye at me.

  “Kipp, you could have warned me,” I grumbled at him. I started to stand, but Lincoln waved me to stay where I was.

  “I just came out to retrieve Tad,” he said. The man had lost weight from our first meeting and looked wasted and thin. One would think that the Union victory would have energized him, but he seemed more fatigued and preoccupied than ever. His thoughts revealed his ongoing worry on how to heal a fractured populace. He took his usual seat, angled in front of the fireplace. I knew, from recorded history, that he’d spent the day with Grant and was, well, curious.

  “Has your day been pleasant?” I asked, hoping to tease him into an exchange.

  “Very much so,” he replied, nodding his head. His hair had grown long again, brushing against his white collar. His black suit was rumpled, and I noticed that a fallen cluster of blossoms from one of the lilacs was clinging to his lapel. Lincoln saw the flowers, too, and gently plucked them free and laid them on the table. “I s
pent the day with General Grant,” he added. I’m not certain why, but he seemed to want to talk. “A very talented man, in terms of war,” he added. Lincoln’s head tilted to the side. “You might think such a man to be extroverted, but General Grant is very quiet and into his own thoughts.” He laughed. “So, I have to pull those thoughts from him.”

  I smiled. “I’m certain the general is relieved that he can return home, just as all warriors when the battle is done.” From my own reading of the man, I knew him to be close to his wife and always despising his separations from his beloved Julia.

  “Yes, Mrs. Holmes. It is past time for our people to be home, living their lives and caring for their families.” Lincoln’s head dipped. For all his political ambitions, he had tired of the life and yearned to return to a simple existence. Just he, Mary, and Tad. That was all that was left of his family, since Robert had become an adult and would forge his own way. As I followed his thoughts, I realized he was still haunted by the disturbing dream he’d had a couple of days earlier where he saw himself in a coffin, the president dead as result of an assassination. He’d told Mary, who predictably became upset. The prophecy of dreams was a debatable subject for many, but it was a fact that Lincoln appeared to have many experiences and dreams that foreshadowed his own doom.

  Peter emerged from the back of the cottage, his hand resting lightly on Tad’s shoulder. “He did very well today, Mr. Lincoln,” Peter said, lightly ruffling Tad’s hair in an affectionate gesture. Tad, wanting to please his papa, began to recite a multiplication table. Lincoln’s eyes widened.

  “You have been a godsend,” he said, smiling at Peter. “But I wonder how much credit goes to your pretty doggie, who seems to captivate my boy.”