“Let me help you sir,” said Gerald Stander, stepping forward smartly. He forced the lid up the rest of the way.
“Thank you,” the solicitor said, panting slightly. He straightened and looked down at Sir Tyron Murfee. The Lloyd’s and Dover Bank representatives strained their necks to see in death the man they had never seen in life; and when they did see, their eyes widened in surprise at the sheer bulk of the man, for the Earl of Sheel weighed nineteen stone — better than two hundred sixty-five pounds.
“Hefty bloke, what?” whispered the Lloyd’s of London man. “Ever see such a belly?”
“That’s the rich for you,” the Dover Bank man said back, “always eating like hogs. The solicitor’s got his work cut out for him, finding any room for them jewels.”
The solicitor commenced distributing the various jewelled articles into the coffin; a ring here, a pendant there, the coat of arms, another ring, singnet clasps, a few unmounted stones, more rings. When the jewel box was empty, he put it aside and directed his attention to Finch.
“The last part of the preamble requests that the Earl’s coffin be left open, since he is the last of the line, and following his interment the crypt is to be sealed forever. As cemetery representative, Mr. Finch, do you have any objection to such a procedure?”
“None, sir,” said Finch, “so long as the crypt itself is safely sealed.”
“Very well,” said the solicitor. “All conditions having been duly complied with, we may proceed with the distribution of the estate.”
Opening his briefcase, the solicitor removed the will and broke its seal. It was a surprisingly uncomplicated document. The stable-hands received fifty pounds each, the groom a hundred. Groundskeepers were given fifty, the gardener one hundred, domestics fifty, the cook a hundred, and so on. Gerald Stander, who had been chauffeur to the Earl for some six years, received a compromise amount — seventy-five pounds. That was sweet of you, old boy, Gerald thought. Give me first class fare to Paris, it will, away from that nagging nag of a wife of mine.
The bulk of the estate, four hundred thousand pounds plus Murfee Manor, went to the Foundation for the Study and Cure of Epilepsy, the Earl having been plagued all of his adult life by that disease. The Lloyd’s of London man was instructed to pay the Earl’s insurance to the Dover Bank man, who in turn was to distribute the legacies accordingly.
“The will directs that a final medical examination be made on the Earl before the crypt is sealed,” said the solicitor. “Doctor, if you please.”
The doctor stepped up to the bier with a stethoscope and listended to the Earl’s chest. Next, he placed a thumb and forefinger on the wrist. Lastly, he held for several seconds a small mirror before the slightly parted lips.
“I detect no heartbeat or pulse.” he declared, “and no breath clouds on the mirror. Again I pronounce Tyron Murfee, the Earl of Sheel, to be dead.”
“I think that concludes the formalities,” said the solicitor. “If you will all step back outside now and witness the sealing of the crypt—”
With the Lloyd’s man and the Dover Bank man and Finch and the servants all gathered round, the solicitor, his briefcase in one hand and the now empty jewel box under his arm, used a shoulder to push the great crypt door closed. Juggling the briefcase, jewel case and his gloves, he fumbled with the bulky crypt key, almost dropping it, and then Gerald Stander stepped smartly forward again.
“I’ll get it for you sir,” he said with a smile. He took the heavy key from the solicitor s hand, inserted it into the lock and twisted it completely around. There was a sharp click as the tumblers engaged Stander removed the key and stood close to the door, putting all his weight on the lock handle to test it. The handle held firm. Stander straightened, squared his shoulders in satisfaction and turned back to the solicitor.
“Thank you,” said the solicitor, taking the key Gerald held out and putting it into his briefcase. He turned to Finch. “You’ll certify that the crypt is once more sealed, Mr. Finch, as it was requested?”
Finch tested the lock. “Aye,” he said, “sealed it is.”
“Very well. These proceedings are hereby ended. Thank you all for your attendance.”
The gathering began to disperse. Finch lingered with Gerald Stander for a moment near the crypt door, filling his pipe while he unobtrusively eavesdropped on the solicitor and the doctor.
“What was all that business of a final medical examination?” Finch heard the solicitor ask the doctor.
“Precaution, I imagine,” said the doctor. “The old boy had epilepsy for years, you know. Somewhere he got wind of an Old Wives’ Tale about the seizures sometimes leaving people in a catatonic state where they appear dead, but aren’t. The saying goes that after twelve or fifteen hours the body comes out of it, fully alive again. Naturally, hearing a story like that makes some epileptics fearful of premature burial.”
“Yes, well. I shouldn’t wonder,” said the solicitor. He glanced back at the crypt door. “You, ah — you’re absolutely certain in this case, are you?”
“Now, see here, counsellor,” the doctor said, slightly miffed, “how’d you like it if I questioned the legality of the will?”
“Yes, I see your point,” said the solicitor. “My apologies. Well, I must be off if I’m to make the last train to London.”
“Be happy to drive you, sir,” Gerald Stander offered. “Got the Manor car right here.”
“Good of you,” said the solicitor.
Finch watched them go. When they were beyond sight, he hurried anxiously toward his cottage — toward his tunnel.
The passageway, leading from beneath the cemetery cottage to a point directly under the Murfee crypt, was exactly large enough in circumference to enable Finch to crawl on his hands and knees the entire distance. Finch had dug out the last eight feet of it that very afternoon, finishing minutes before the Earl’s coffin was brought down from Murfee Manor. It was a compact, well-constructed tunnel, shored up on both sides and above by sturdy slabs of rough wood, of the same type used to wall up open graves on rainy days. Even the weight of a hearse on the ground above would not disturb the tunnel
An hour after the crypt had been closed, Finch sat at an old wooden table in his shabby little cottage, drinking a large glass of whiskey and contemplating the open hole in the floor before him, the entrance to his tunnel which had taken him a year to excavate. He shuddered at the thought of all that had gone into that tunnel or, more gruesome yet, all that had come out of it. Working underground in the muck and mire was bad enough, but when the muck and mire contained the remains of—
Finch shuddered again and gulped down his whiskey. No matter, he thought. It’s all over now, all but the collecting. He stood up and looked at his pocket watch. The solicitor would be boarding the train just about now. In another half hour the cemetery would be dark. Might as well get on with it.
The stooped, grey cemetery keeper slung a hand shovel and crowbar across his back, looped a battery lantern around his neck, and lowered himself into the hole. Reaching out behind him, he removed a wooden brace and carefully let drop into place a cut-out slab of the brick floor to conceal his passageway. Finch rarely had visitors, but tonight was not the night to take unnecessary risks. With the slab in place, the hole would be undetectable.
The tunnel, as usual, was damp and clammy; but on this, the beginning of his last trip through it, Finch did not mind the wetness that crept up through his trouser knees, nor the sharp rocks he occasionally jabbed his hand against, nor even the putrid odour he invariably encountered midway in his journey; for tonight — tonight was the time he had dreamed about all the lonely, barren moments of his life. Tonight was the time of rebirth.