The sun beat down on the colourfully-dressed mourners as they made their way back to the waiting limousine.
"Trust Albert to have his funeral on the hottest day of the month," commented Ash with a wry grin.
"He beat the odds again," agreed Mickey. "When was the last time London had 18 degrees in November?"
Danny, attempting (but failing) to put his arm around Stacie to comfort her, said, "D'you think he's gonna do a Sherlock on us?"
They all smiled. "I wouldn't be in the least surprised," replied Mickey.
Stacie stopped, turned around, and scanned the shrubs and trees that lined the borders of the graveyard. "Just checking," she murmured, rejoining the others.
"Hello, I believe you have a reservation for me."
The man at the desk scanned his guest up and down. "I seriously doubt it," he answered, "but let me look up our records." He studied a large ledger for some minutes, then closed it and with a regretful look said, "I'm afraid not."
"Perhaps you have me confused with someone else?"
There was a pause. "We don't usually make mistakes here. You're Albert Stroller, aren't you?"
"Ah, I thought you might have got my name wrong. It's Solo. Napoleon Solo."
"Mr. Solo, I do apologise!" A hurried re-inspection of his book, the man came out from behind the desk and beckoned to his guest. "Please come with me."
Together, they walked through a very large pair of golden, pearl-encrusted gates.