It was grey and damp. Three hours earlier, when Carlyle had left the flat, clear blue skies offered the hint of a pleasant summer day. Now it seemed a facsimile of February in June. Cursing himself for ignoring the weather forecast and leaving his raincoat at home, he cast his gaze to the heavens and hoped that the surrounding trees would offer him some protection from the imminent rain. Despite his discomfort, this was the right kind of weather for a funeral. Carlyle had long ago decided that getting buried on a beautiful summer’s day would just be the final insult – the universe taking the piss. Dark, dank and introspective – that was how he wanted the proceedings when his own time came. Waiting for the deluge, he forced himself to lighten up. With luck, his time would be a while in coming yet. For Agatha and Henry Mills, however, their time had already come. In their respective wills, the pair had stipulated that they be buried together in the Pettigrew family mausoleum at Lavender Hill Cemetery in North London.
