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him from the station approached, it opened and a nun beckoned them in. “Bonjour, Monsieur. I am Sister Agnes. I regret we meet under such sorrowing circumstances.”
    With a tip of his cap to Murdoch, the driver tromped off the way they had come.
    “He will bring your valise,” Sister Agnes said to Murdoch. She hesitated. “You may stay as long as you wish. Our accommodation is very simple but, I hope, adequate.”
    They were standing in an anteroom devoid of furnishings, with an uncovered flagstone floor and whitewashed stone walls. The extern had a lamp but the wick was turned low, and where they were was dim and so cold he could see his own breath white on the air.
    “When can I see my sister?”
    The nun glanced away. “I regret that according to our rule you will not be able to see her in person.”
    Murdoch was well aware of the rule, but he wanted to defy it, to vent his anger on the women who applied it so rigidly.
    “Surely you can make an exception in this case?”
    “I regret, Monsieur, that is for our Mother to decide. However, we have arranged to have our sister brought to the infirmary parlour. She is very weak, but it is possible you can speak to her.”
    She turned and opened another door behind her, and he followed her into a narrow corridor, like the anteroom uncarpeted and bare. Their footsteps rang on the stone floor. She unlocked yet another door and ushered him into a small room.
    “Please be seated, Mr. Murdoch. I will be but a moment.”
    The parlour contained only three straight-backed chairs and a low table. A single candle burned in a wall sconce, underneath which was a brass crucifix that shone with a dull, ruddy gleam in the candlelight. On the other side, a text was written on the white wall: I AM THE WAY AND THE LIFE SAID THE LORD . To the left of this was what appeared to be a small window covered by a square of plain grey felt. The floor was flagstone, but a hemp carpet was a concession to comfort. There was a fire in the hearth, but it was banked down to the point almost of extinction.
    Murdoch took off his hat but decided it was far to cold to remove his coat. He went over to the fireplace. There was no poker or coalbox, so he had to kick at the coal to get more of a blaze going. He warmed his hands and waited. There was absolute silence all around him.
    It seemed a long time before the extern returned. There was a smell of incense on her clothes. She addressed a point over his right shoulder.
    “I must tell you our sister is in a state of severe suffering,” she said. “I beg you not to tire her or distress her unnecessarily.”
    He was on the verge of making a sarcastic retort, but he bit it back when he saw that, beneath her pious detachment, she was grieved.
    “You realise, Sister, I have no knowledge of the nature of her illness.”
    “She has a tumour. Unfortunately, she did not inform Reverend Mother that she was ill until the disease was quite advanced.”
    Her tone was somewhat defensive as if she expected he would hold the prioress responsible for neglect of her duty. He didn’t. Susanna was always that way. Ever since he had known her, she had hidden her pain or sickness, never complaining. It frustrated him and sometimes he would tease her unmercifully. Once he twisted her finger, trying to force her to cry out. She wouldn’t, and he’d stopped, thoroughly ashamed of himself.
    He heard sounds of movement from the adjoining room, and there was a light tapping on the wall. Sister Agnes drew back the piece of felt. It wasn’t covering a window but a metal grille about three feet square.
    “You can come closer, Mr. Murdoch.”
    He did so and could look through the grille into the adjoining room. However, a second piece of black material was hung across the opening, and he could barely make out two shadowy figures in nun’s garb. He heard, rather than saw, that the far door opened and somebody came into the room carrying an oil lamp. This light made the black