‘Yes and no, and not a funeral. I was visiting the grave of the lady I used to be in my last life. She died over eighty years ago, before I was born … obviously. Quite spooky looking down on the grave of someone you used to be in a previous existence.’

It amused me to tell Jon the absolute truth and see what he made of it. He looked startled by my reply, then he creased up laughing. ‘God, I love you Bea Brooks. OK, OK, I get it. None of my business again. Sorry. Won’t ask again or … maybe I will, just to see what story you come up with next.’

‘No, Jon, I am serious. I am telling you the truth. That is where I have been.’

Jon laughed again. ‘Sure, sure. Last life. Love it. And I’ve just been made prime minister. Let’s get together sometime and compare fantasies. Could be fun. My place or yours?’

‘I’ll have to consult my diary, but I think I’m busy for the next millennium.’

‘I can wait.’ He went off chuckling at what I’d said.

31

On Friday morning, Heather and I went back to Highgate Cemetery, paid an admission fee and soon we were off on a tour again. This time the guide was a middle-aged woman with short brown hair and a friendly face called Margaret. As we walked through the graves, she gave a talk similar to the one that Nigel had given earlier in the week. Like me, Heather had never been inside the cemetery, and was awe-struck by it, especially when we passed the Egyptian gate. ‘This is like a film set,’ she said.

‘That’s what I thought.’

Margaret overheard us. ‘It is indeed; it was used as the location for a number of horror films: The Picture of Dorian Gray, Taste the Blood of Dracula and Tales from the Crypt, as well as Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them.’

‘Why have I never been here before?’ asked Heather as she looked around. ‘I love it.’

We learnt from Margaret that Charles Dickens’s parents were buried there, as were the artist Lucian Freud, actress Jean Simmons, singer George Michael and actor Bob Hoskins, to name but a few, but the one that we and the rest of the tour were really interested in was that of Elizabeth Siddal.

Margaret led us through the lanes. She stopped at a gravestone that consisted of a tall stone with the top shaped like a four-leaf clover. ‘The grave of Elizabeth Siddal. Many of you will have heard the wild stories about her being dug up by her husband Dante …’ She filled us in on the story about the hair and the poems.

‘It seemed a fitting place for her to have ended up,’ I whispered when Margaret had finished, as she indicated that we should follow her back to the entrance. ‘It’s romantic and poignant,’ I added.