The Murder Seat, Page 2

  ***

  The next morning, Herbert found Concepta’s office locked. Sulking at home, no doubt. The girl had no sense of professionalism. She had better be in soon. Herbert needed a secretary today of all days.

  He unlocked his office and entered. The Murder Seat stood exactly where it had been the night before. As he hung his hat and coat, the phone rang. He picked up the receiver.

  “Hello. Is this Dr. Marriott?” an old lady asked sweetly.

  “It is. Who, might I ask, is calling?”

  “This is Concepta’s mother. I’m afraid she’s feeling poorly so she won’t be in today.”

  “What’s wrong with her?” Herbert tried to sound sympathetic, but irritation edged his voice.

  “Her tummy’s not good. She got sick three times during the night.”

  “Oh, that’s terrible. Tell her to rest up for however long she needs and not to worry about this place. We’ll manage till she’s better.”

  He slammed down the receiver, and with a mute roar, he punched the air in triumph. The Murder Seat’s spell must be already working. How long would she last? A day? A week? It didn’t matter as long as he was rid of her for good.

  But this left him with a problem. He had no gatekeeper to his office. Anyone might stroll in and become the Murder Seat’s next victim. The best thing to do was to lock the door again and wander the museum for the day; tell everyone it was an inspection.

  So he spent his morning and early afternoon making careful notes of damaged display cases, missing curios, watermarks on the ceilings, peeling paint, dangerously soft spots in the checkered linoleum floors, and other symptoms of neglect and decay. That was the problem with running the third most important museum in a small city—it was always the runt of the litter when it came to funding, especially in recessionary times. The National Museum had it so easy. Most tourists never read enough of their guidebooks to discover the existence of its lesser-known rival, much less bother to visit it.

  A little before three o’clock, an overweight, red-faced security guard ran up to him.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt you, Dr. Marriott,” the guard managed to say between wheezy pants. “Your wife is waiting for you in your office.”

  The hair on the back of Herbert’s neck stood to attention. “What?” he hollered.

  The guard’s crimson deepened. “She insisted I open the door. She didn’t look too happy.”

  Herbert was already running down the hall back to his office. Through corridors and themed rooms, he raced. Down the stairs, he flew, nearly slamming into the wall at the bottom of each flight. His heart hammered madly, his lungs burned, but he had to get to Margaret before she sat on that accursed chair.

  He burst into the lobby.

  “You’re not allowed to run here!” someone shouted as Herbert weaved past shocked tourists.

  Up the stairs on the other side of the lobby he sprinted. He had never realized how big the museum was.

  At last, he saw his office door ajar.

  “Margaret,” he rasped as he stumbled through the door.

  She was ensconced on the Murder Seat, a photo-frame in her hands. Her head swung round, her features twisted with anger. “I found this facedown on the desk. No doubt you are too ashamed to look at it.”

  He shielded his head with his arms as she threw it. It smashed at his feet, littering the tiled floor with glass shards.

  He bent over, trying to catch his breath enough to speak.

  “I know about her,” Margaret said, rising to her feet.

  He straightened and rushed to her with open arms. “Forgive me,” he wheezed, but he wasn’t referring to his infidelity. It paled in comparison to his greater crime. He had murdered her as surely as if he had driven a knife into her heart. A lifetime of marriage flashed before his eyes. He had to find some way to save her. If he had the chair exorcised…

  A cracking slap sent him reeling across the room. His head slammed against a filing cabinet.

  Margaret’s whole body quaked. Was she about to have an epileptic fit? Tears welled in her eyes. A soft squeal expanded into a frenzied screech. This wasn’t the mild-mannered woman Herbert had known for thirty years. It was as if she had been possessed, possessed by the Murder Seat.

  She dashed from the office, still screaming.

  Without thinking, he probed the pain at the back of his head. His hair felt greasy. He examined his hand. It was covered in blood. How appropriate.

  He needed to think. He tried to shake himself from his daze. He had to find her, calm her down. Before she harmed herself.

  His leg rose to kick the chair but he stopped before it connected. Instead, he shook his fist at it. “If anything happens to her, I’ll chop you up for firewood!” This was what he had been reduced to—talking to furniture.

  Desperate to find her, he raced from his office. Distance had already made her screaming faint. He dashed toward the muted sound, heedless of the shocked and disapproving stares of visitors and staff. His chest started to ache, but he pushed through the pain. The crying grew louder. He must be closing in.

  It stopped. Slowing down to a walk, he continued in the direction from which it had come. Oh God, what might he find? Margaret lying facedown in some display room like a discarded doll?

  A breath later, he found his wife in the arms of a sparse-haired young man in a brown three-piece suit, her face pressed against his shoulder as she whimpered. It took a moment to recognize his son. Through modern thick oversized glasses, Francis regarded Herbert with uncompromising disdain.

  “I didn’t know you were visiting Dublin…” What was he doing here?

  “I came over on the ferry this morning,” he said, pushing his glasses back up his nose. He turned to his mother. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he murmured. “Will you be okay by yourself?”

  She nodded. “I’ll just pop to the toilet.” She directed Herbert a contemptuous glance. “If I can find a working one.”

  She was always so quick to point out Herbert’s faults, even when they were not really his. He simply hadn’t the budget to keep every toilet in the museum functional…

  Francis directed an accusatory finger at Herbert. “I want to speak with you in private.”

  The only sound the two men made as they walked back to Herbert’s office was their breathing—Herbert’s desperate wheeze and Francis’ angry snort. What could Herbert say to placate his son? How could he explain that his indiscretion didn’t matter, that a greater crime had eclipsed it? If Francis understood the danger Margaret was in, he might be able to help undo the curse. He held a professorship in anthropology. He must know something about witchcraft.

  But to do so, Herbert had to admit that he had brought the Murder Seat to his office. Eventually, he would have to own up to his purpose. He mulled over this dilemma as they entered his office.

  “Don’t sit down on that chair!” he roared as Francis’ bottom descended on the Murder Seat, but the warning came too late.

  Francis looked at him askance.

  “Get off it!” Wasn’t Margaret enough for the damned chair? Now it had doomed Herbert’s son as well.

  “What is wrong with you?” Francis asked, knitting his brows in confusion.

  “Get up! Get up!” Herbert yelled, wildly tugging his son’s arm.

  Francis shook his head as he stood. He glanced down at the outwardly ordinary chair and looked at Herbert with horror. “You’ve gone mad.”

  “Get out. Please get out,” Herbert begged, massaging his forehead with trembling hands.

  “I’m not staying,” his son said as he headed for the door. “You’ve plainly lost your mind.”

  Herbert slammed the door shut after him, then slid down the varnished mahogany onto the floor and wept uncontrollably. Even Concepta’s life was precious. Her sins were trivial against his. He had become a monster.

  What should he do? Destroy the seat? Call an exorcist in?

  Someone tinkered with the lock and tried the door
handle. The door shoved against Herbert’s back before admitting defeat. Had Francis come back?

  Herbert checked his watch. It was half past seven. The time had flown so fast.

  A knock on the door. “Cleaning.”

  Until Herbert had a better idea about what he should do, he should return the accursed chair to its case.

  “One moment,” he said, rising off the floor and wiping his tears. “Come in.”

  The door slowly creaked open and the cleaner’s head peeped in. “Have you got a cold?”

  “Yes,” Herbert said, pulling out his handkerchief and blowing his nose. “I need a favor. Remember that seat you brought here for me?”

  She bit her lower lip and blushed. “I’ve a confession to make. When I was cleaning the floor, I put the chairs on the desk. I think…no, I’m sure…I mixed up the two seats when I put them back.”

  So Herbert’s family was safe, as was Concepta. Her stomach bug must have been a coincidence. It was such a relief, Herbert might have kissed the cleaner.

  Then a tingling chill sliced up his spine, robbing his joy. He had been sitting on the Murder Seat the whole time!

  “Are you all right?” the cleaner asked. “You look pale.”

  Herbert had enough. He lunged over his desk, grabbed the Murder Seat, and banged it against the floor.

  The cleaner’s eyes widened before she fled, shouting for the security guard.

  Lifting the seat over his head, Herbert thrust it down again and again. The crunch of breaking wood made him redouble his effort. By the time he finished, the treacherous chair lay in pieces on the floor.

  He laughed triumphantly as he glanced back at the cleaner and the old security guard staring at him from the door. The Murder Seat had been destroyed! Why had nobody else thought to do the same?

  A nagging pain pricked his palm. He opened his hand and found a splinter stuck in his flesh. So, this was the best the Murder Seat could do in its death throes. Herbert giggled. Death throws might have been more accurate. He picked the splinter out and tossed it on the floor with the rest of the fragments.

  He had conquered the Murder Seat! He would gather the pieces and burn them. No trace of it must survive.

  A peculiar wooziness overcame him. He staggered across the spinning room and lunged for the desk, but he missed and hit the floor.

  “I had better ring for an ambulance,” the guard said, his words fading as blackness engulfed Herbert.