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 (
http://www.finish-the-story.com/Editing.htm
)

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

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

Smashwords Edition

Epub Edition: ISBN:978-1-910206-12-6

Build: A1

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.