“
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.
***
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?”