The Murder Seat



  THE MURDER SEAT

  by Noel Coughlan

  THE MURDER SEAT

  Copyright © 2016 Noel Coughlan

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover by Venanzio (www.tatlin.net)

  Edited by Finish The Story (https://www.finish-the-story.com/Editing.htm)

  Additional Proofreading by Proofed to Perfection (https://www.proofedtoperfection.com/)

  Published by Photocosmological Press (https://photocosm.org/)

  Epub Edition: ISBN:978-1-910206-11-9

  Build: A2

  THE MURDER SEAT

  1984, Dublin

  Dr. Herbert Marriott gazed upon the austere wooden chair idly placed inside the windowed cabinet. Fifty years of dust lay upon it. A half-century had passed since its evil had been imprisoned behind glass, sentenced forever to be an untouched exhibit in his museum.

  Its murderous history began in 1847, at the height of the Great Famine. One of Major Mackleton’s tenants, recently evicted, visited his residence to beg for her home back. The major invited the old woman briefly into the reception hall to remind her of the money she still owed. Incensed by this humiliation, she laid a curse upon him. Within a fortnight, his two strapping sons were found dead, thrown from their horses on the same hunt. Soon after, the major’s wife died of grief. Even his favorite dog succumbed to the malediction. The major himself lasted another month before he, too, died of some unspecified ailment. According to legend, he departed this world screaming.

  His servants blamed these calamities on the chair the major had sat upon when the old woman laid her curse. They claimed that to rest upon it invited death.

  The Roycroft-Smythe family, the major’s cousins, scoffed at this superstitious claptrap when they inherited his property. Within a year, they, too, had died. A succession of unfortunate owners suffered the same ill fate, until one canny individual, William Boyce, donated it to the Dublin Museum of Culture and Art. Yet his wit did not save him. The day after the chair arrived at the museum, Boyce’s house collapsed, killing him and all whom he loved.

  The Murder Seat, as more lurid elements of the press dubbed it, remained in storage until its infamy had somewhat mellowed. In the thirties, the then curator, Henry Tyrwhitt, desperate to finance the museum, exhibited the chair as a means of drawing in less-refined patrons. At first, the gambit succeeded. People from all over Ireland came to see the notorious chair. A few braver souls even sat upon it to test the curse. The museum’s takings from this most unusual exhibit exceeded Tyrwhitt’s wildest hopes. But then people began to turn up dead…

  Of course, no court found the museum culpable for these deaths. They were unfortunate accidents. The fact that all the victims had sat on the Murder Seat was coincidental. But in 1934, Tyrwhitt was moved to protect the public from itself by locking the chair away in a glass cabinet, just before he drowned in the Liffey.

  Exactly five decades later, Herbert, his current successor, now held the key to the Murder Seat’s prison in his quivering hand.

  He had a problem he hoped the chair might solve, and her name was Concepta Ryan. His secretary. And his lover.

  Their affair had begun so innocently, but now it threatened to wreck his marriage and ruin his good name. She demanded the impossible. He could never leave his wife. He loved Margaret. But Concepta had made less than subtle threats that she would destroy what she could not possess. The action Herbert contemplated wasn’t murder, merely self-defense.

  Besides, the curse might be merely happenstance and exaggeration fabricated by macabre imaginations. Concepta might survive sitting upon the chair. The thought stirred anxiety as much as it eased his conscience. If the Murder Seat failed him, what then?

  He pushed the little key into the keyhole and tried to turn it. For an agonizing moment, the lock refused to budge. He applied more pressure until it clicked open. The cabinet trembled dangerously as he swung open the squealing glass doors.

  He gazed upon the intended means of Concepta’s demise. The plainness of the chair only added to its menace. It was of a type found in many historic houses. Indeed, most chairs in the museum’s offices were exact replicas—a tasteless joke made by a previous curator. Even Herbert had been forced to use one since his ten-year-old swivel chair broke.

  He patiently waited for the cleaner to pass by. The regular lady was on leave, so some sullen youngster had temporarily taken her place. Of course, the new girl knew little of the museum or its exhibits—a detail to Herbert’s advantage. After all, he needed her help. He couldn’t risk touching the Murder Seat himself.

  The metallic creak of her bucket echoed down the corridor before her. She wore the soiled white coat typical of her profession. She stank of cheap perfume and bleach. Peroxide-blond hair, sternly pulled back into a ponytail, emphasized the plainness of her face.

  “You are here late,” she observed with ill-concealed annoyance.

  “Hello, my dear,” he said. “Can you help me?”

  She gave him a suspicious scowl as she halted and laid down her bucket and mop.

  He pointed to the chair. “I need this moved to my office. I suffer from backaches, you see.” He illustrated his point by grimacing and rubbing the small of his back.

  Her cheeks puffed with irritation. She seized the chair and lifted it from the cabinet. “You can carry the mop and bucket.”

  “My back,” he pleaded, wincing in an effort to play the part of an invalid to avoid arousing suspicion.

  Her natural scowl deepened, but mercifully she kept silent. Herbert led her down the shabby corridor to his office and asked her to plant the Murder Seat in front of his mahogany desk.

  “You wouldn’t mind giving it a wipe, would you?” he asked with a nervous chuckle. “It’s a bit dusty.”

  She pulled a used dust cloth from her pocket and proceeded to take out her frustrations on the chair.

  Herbert raised his trembling hands. The Murder Seat mustn’t be angered. “More gentle, please!”

  She directed a sour glance at him but eased her assault.

  “Thank you very much,” Herbert said when she finished. He rested one hand on the duplicate chair beside him, the one for visitors. “Now would you mind bringing this seat back to the cabinet?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’m here to clean, not to shift furniture about the place.” She snatched the chair up and headed for the door.

  He dashed ahead and held it open for her like a gentleman should. They walked side by side back to the cabinet.

  “I suppose you want me to lift this into the cabinet,” she muttered.

  “If you wouldn’t mind.”

  Her lower lip jutted out, but she hefted the chair into the cabinet. “I’ll clean your office now,” she said as she picked up the mop and bucket.

  Herbert nodded enthusiastically. “Of course. Just don’t sit on that seat.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Has it got a bad back as well?”

  He laughed nervously. “Very good. Very good.”

  As she stomped away, he locked the cabinet and slipped the key back into his pocket. Surely, the Murder Seat would do her no harm. She had merely moved it from one place to another. And, of course, she had dusted it. But she had not sat on it.

  He followed behind her
at a discrete distance and hovered near his office door while she cleaned. From inside came the sounds of the mop splashing in the bucket and slobbering across the scuffed ceramic floor, rubbish dropping into a plastic bag, the squeal of moving furniture… What was she doing in there? He crept nearer to the doorjamb to peer inside, only to be confronted by her. She gave him a suspicious glare.

  “So you are finished,” he said. “Very good.”

  “You can’t go in there yet.” She grunted. “The floor’s wet.”

  He nodded. “I’ll wait right here till it’s dry.”

  She had lumbered halfway down the corridor when she looked back at him. For no obvious reason, he smiled and waved. She shook her head and continued down the hall. As soon as she disappeared from view, he entered his office.

  Instead of the familiar scent of must and storage heaters, the vile sting of bleach assaulted his nostrils. Had she not been informed that such harsh cleaning agents were strictly forbidden in his office? In other circumstances, he might have complained to her supervisor, but not tonight. She had done him a great service. She deserved some leniency.

  The Murder Seat was where she had originally placed it. She must have washed the floor around it. That was the trouble with the youth of today—no attention to detail. He walked around to the far side of his desk and sat down. He picked up the receiver of his black telephone to find the coiled cord had telltale knots. The cleaner must have used it, probably to ring some pimply boyfriend. Or perhaps she had merely cleaned it.

  By the time he had unwound it, the dial tone had cut out. He replaced the receiver and lifted it again. Carefully, he dialed Concepta’s number.

  “Hello.” It wasn’t Concepta’s voice. It belonged to an older woman. Perhaps the speaker was her mother.

  “Can I speak to Concepta, please?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Can I speak to Concepta, please?” he yelled.

  The old woman roared for Concepta. Feet hammered down a flight of stairs. Hands fumbled with the other receiver. It fell and clattered against the wall. A hushed curse came through the line as someone picked it up.

  “Yes?” This time it was definitely Concepta.

  “Come to the museum,” he said. “I’ve thought about what you said, and I’ve come to a decision.” He slammed the receiver down before she could reply.

  He yanked open the stiff bottom drawer and removed a bottle of whiskey and a pair of tumblers. He poured himself a drink and lifted it to his lips. His wife and son smiled at him from the photograph on his desk. It must be at least twenty years old. Margaret’s hair was long, straight, and blond. She had been really beautiful back then. As for Francis, he must have been—what, maybe twelve?—when the photograph had been taken. The boy beamed as he held a massive trout in his arms. Such happy, innocent times. Herbert turned the photograph facedown and swallowed his drink.

  By the time Concepta knocked on his door, he had emptied half of the bottle. “Come in,” he said. “I’m alone.” His eyes drifted to the Murder Seat. It sat as still and innocent as a Venus flytrap awaiting its victim.

  She entered. The enamel disks visible beneath her bushy, permed blond hairdo matched the blue of her severely tight dress. The whiskey and bleach couldn’t protect him from the reek of her vulgar perfume. Her makeup was heavier than normal. If anything, it detracted from her appearance. Evidently, she wanted to make an impression.

  She had succeeded, but not in the manner she had intended. Her attire, like her comportment, was too gauche for his tastes. The only thing that he had ever really loved about her was her unquenchable attraction to him. Now that it had turned into an obsession, it no longer titillated. It had become a very real threat.

  “Please, sit down,” he said, waving at the Murder Seat.

  She didn’t move. Did she sense something was amiss?

  She slowly walked over to the dreaded chair. Herbert cringed as she sat down, but nothing happened. The chair behaved like any other.

  She crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing into suspicious squints. “So what do you want to say to me?”

  He cleared his throat. “I’m going to leave Margaret.”

  Her lips pressed into a defiant line. “You’ve promised that before. But the time’s never right. There’s always some convenient excuse.”

  Resting his elbows on the desk, he opened his hands in a pleading gesture. “All I ask is three months. If I haven’t told her by then, you can.” Three months would be enough for the Murder Seat to do its magic. Hopefully.

  She nodded at the desk. “I hope you’re doing the talking and not that half-empty bottle.”

  “Of course not.”

  A wan smile crept across her face. “That’s a start, I suppose. But remember, I’m not some floozy. I won’t be satisfied with being your mistress.”

  Now that it no longer mattered, the best course was to humor her fantasy, but Herbert couldn’t help himself. Separating from his wife would be a scandal, but divorce was a legal impossibility. “If you’re pinning your hopes on this talk of a referendum to remove the constitutional ban—”

  Concepta’s eyes had a determined gleam as she slowly shook her head. “I’m not. We’ll move to England until you can legally obtain a divorce there. Then we can marry. Obviously it’ll have to be a civil ceremony, as no Catholic priest will wed us, but I’ll still be Mrs. Herbert Marriott.”

  His eyes stretched with shock, but he nodded enthusiastically. “There’s nothing I want more.” Nobody could reason with such madness. Yet he felt sorry for the poor deluded fool. Here she was, mapping out the rest of her life when it was already forfeit to the Murder Seat.

  Her smile blossomed. Her eyes glistened like indigo gems. She leapt up and rushed around the desk, her arms stretching to embrace him. He stood, pushed back his chair with the backs of his legs, and turned to escape her, but she proved too quick. As her arms tightened around him, all he could think was that he was in the grasp of a living corpse.

  She regarded him with horror after he pushed her away. “Why did you do that?”

  “I must leave soon,” he said, trying to sound apologetic. “Margaret is expecting me.”

  The violence of Concepta’s stare made him falter backward.

  “You dragged me down here, and now you scurry off to your wife,” she snarled. “I suppose you’re afraid to offer me a lift home. I’ll have to get the bus, as usual.”

  “I’ll drive you,” he blurted.

  She snorted. “I’ll make my own way home, thanks.” She stormed from the room, slamming the mahogany door behind her.

  He resisted the urge to pursue her. Nothing had come of similar flare-ups in the past. On mature reflection, he felt relief at her departure. Her presence was an intolerable reminder of his infidelity and the extreme measure that he had taken to correct it.

  He put away the whiskey and the tumblers, donned his hat and coat, grabbed his briefcase, and made toward the door. He paused. What about the Murder Seat? It was too dangerous to leave in the office. It had to be returned to its cabinet. He couldn’t move it, either. He didn’t dare touch it. The cleaner had gone home by now. The security guard on duty happened to be an old-timer who knew too much about the Murder Seat to not ask awkward questions.

  The only choice was to leave it in his office until the next night and persuade the cleaner to return it. Herbert would tell Concepta that he was busy and forbid all visits for the day.

  He switched off the light and locked the door, imprisoning the Murder Seat in its temporary home.