The Murder Seat by Noel Coughlan Page A

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