Jerry tapped his trowel on the wood. “So – the weakest point of a coffin is right about here – bang slap in the middle of the largest panel. The closer you are to the hinges or the nails, the harder it’s going to be to—Clive, are you even listening?”

“Hmm? I’m sorry, Jerry. It’s just... Phil is planning something, I can feel it! He’s been so distant... I just wish I knew what the final test will be...”

Jerry sighed. “It’ll ’appen when it ’appens, Clive.”

“I just don’t know what he’s waiting for?”

“A change in the weather, perhaps? Who knows?”

“The weather?”

Jerry threw up his hands. “I’ve said too much already!”

“Wait! Jerry!” Clive had finally twigged. “You know what the final test is?”

“Maybe... Look, I’m not saying anything more! Except... – it’s dangerous! Alright? Very! Perhaps that’s why Phil’s stepping back? He doesn’t want to get too attached, in case... you know...”

“I don’t survive?”

Jerry made violent warding motions. “That’s it! I’m not saying nuffin’ more! Except!” Jerry snatched up Clive’s trowel. “Don’t EVER get caught without it! Don’t eat without it, sleep without it, bathe without it! Consider it a non-excisable extension of your body – like a tail, or a third ball!”

“Dangerous? My trowel? What am I going to be doing? Gardening in a lightning storm?”

Jerry threw up his hands again. “I’m not saying a thing more! Not ONE thing! Now... back to my thrilling lecture on the weaknesses of a coffin – and you better be paying attention this time!”

Phil did not reappear until after nightfall. Clive was already in his coffin. The Undertaker’s footfall was highly distinctive, and Clive didn’t need to see him to know who it was. Clive risked a peek over the edge of the coffin into the darkness. Phil’s undulating form was just visible, and he seemed to be... carrying something? Something large, and wrapped in a cloth.

Could it be a part of the final test?

Carefully, Clive raised himself and slipped a foot over the edge of the coffin. He knew the layout of the parlour by heart now and could traverse it blindfolded; the stench from the rotting druid alone was enough to navigate by! Keeping his distance, quiet as a doormat, he tailed Phil deeper into the parlour.

The corner Phil was headed for was one Phil had never used for Clive’s training. Coffins were dotted about the floor, but that was hardly unusual. Phil came to a stop before one, and raised the lid. So this was where he slept? But what Phil did next, shocked Clive to the core. Phil stepped inside, but he did not lie down. He took another step, and another – his body seemed to be shrinking! Another, another – and then it dawned! Phil was walking down a flight of stairs! A secret entrance hidden within the coffin!

So! There was another room, a basement, beneath the floorboards!

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

Clive was intrigued: whatever the final test was, this was where it was being prepared. And it was something big, clearly! He just had to have a peek...

Walking gingerly forward he arrived next to the coffin. A dim light was visible from the trapdoor within. Clive was not foolish enough to follow Phil into his concealed basement lair, but he was just about foolish enough to lean over the edge, and stick his head through the hole, keeping his legs high and out as counterweights.

The room inverted into view. The Undertaker was at work behind a large table, a lantern fluttering beside him. He had placed the cloth package upon the surface, and was now unwrapping it. What emerged was dark brown, leather bound... a vast tome! Phil did not open it, but, from the way he lifted it reverently in his outstretched arms, it clearly had great value to him. Turning slowly, he raised it onto a shelf in a great iron safe behind him, and shut and locked the door. The Undertaker turned towards Clive–

–and that was when something grabbed Clive by the ankles and yanked him violently backwards!

He made to scream—but an earthy hand clamped itself over his mouth!

“Shhhhh!” hissed Jerry (by the smell). “Calm down and I’ll take my hand away!”

Realising who it was, Clive relaxed. He turned and whispered. “What on earth was that, Jerry? That huge book? And why is it so valuable it has a secret room with a safe? I thought only banks had those. And grammar schools.”

Jerry pointed towards the hole. “Not here! Phil would murder you without a second thought if he knew you had seen that!”

Clive followed Jerry back into a less perilous portion of the parlour. “So, are you going to tell me now?”

“It’s a ledger, Clive. THE ledger.”

“You mean like a record.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“So what’s it recording?”

“The dead.”

“All of them?”

“No. Just the ones Phil’s family has buried.”

“Phil’s family? You mean his father was also...”

“Oh, they weren’t called ‘undertakers’ back then. Any old odd job man could do it. Just another undertaking, like mending the door or mucking out the latrine. But yes, burying the dead has been something of a family tradition for the Anburies. A duty, Phil would say.”

“So it’s a list of all the names of the dead they buried?”

“Equally important to who, is where!”

“You’ve lost me–”

“–everytime I turn around. It’s a record of the burial sites of every man the Anburies have ever put in the ground.”

“I see. But why all the secrecy? Hardly sounds like heresy to me!”

“Depends on the client! When Charles I was executed, parliament refused to allow him to be buried in Westminster Abbey like his forebears–”

“Charles I had four bears?”

“No. Only three – but don’t get me started on them! Now, supposedly, Charles was buried in the Chapel of St. George in Windsor. Only, when his son, our current Charlie of the second, took the throne and went looking for paps – he couldn’t find him!”

“You mean – Charles I wasn’t buried at Windsor?”

“Nope! But I’d wager that if ever I got a look at that ledger, I’d know exactly where the King’s body was!”

“Phil doesn’t let even you–”

“Ha, me? Phil lets no-one read the ledger!”

“You think that Anbury was the one who–”

“Stands to reason! You want to keep a secret from the royal household – outsource it!”

“But, then... why does Phil want to keep Charles I’s body a secret? I mean it’s not like Cromwell’s still in charge, is he? Why, the son of a King would probably reward Phil handsomely were he to–”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it! Very ’andsomely! And there have been offers, I assure you! But, if you ’aven’t worked it out yet, Phil isn’t highly motivated by riches. You have to wonder, though: what other secrets is he hiding?”

“But – does it matter? I mean... dead men tell no tales, right?”142

“Well, they certainly always mess up the punchlines. But, sometimes...” Jerry looked away, seeing somehow far beyond the parlour walls. “Sometimes, perhaps, the dead are best left buried...”

There was movement from the direction of the basement entrance.

“Get to sleep!” ushered Jerry. “The final test is tomorrow, and you’re going to need your rest...”

“Tomorrow!” squeaked Clive. “Are you sure?”

“Damn it!” muttered Jerry. “I ain’t saying a thing more. Except... trowel! You got your trowel, right? That’s it– that’s all I’m saying! Now scramble!”

“Alrighty then!”

Clive fell asleep to echoing dreams of hammering nails, and the gentle patter of earth falling upon wooden boards.