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regret. The old car had done good service.
    It was past ten by the time she had completed her purchases, stowed them in the boot, and set off briskly for the café where Sister Hilaria had once been persuaded into a cup of coffee. At this hour and on such a cold, grey day it was almost deserted. Certainly there was no sign yet of Mrs Fairly. Sister Joan ordered tea for two and poured herself a cup, keeping an eye out through the plate glass window where the street was filling with morning shoppers. One of them, a tall, dark man with a rugged aspect, paused as he caught sight of her, hesitated, then came in.
    ‘Good morning, Sister Joan. I thought they didn’t let you out during Lent.’
    ‘Detective Sergeant Mill, how nice to see you!’ She responded cordially to his firm handshake.
    ‘Busy as ever. Are you playing truant, Sister?’
    ‘Not guilty, Detective Sergeant Mill. I’m waiting for Mrs Fairly. She asked me to meet her here.’
    ‘When?’ His glance was suddenly keen.
    ‘At ten this morning but she’s a little late – oh, she telephoned the convent yesterday afternoon. Why?’
    ‘May I join you, Sister?’ He sat down and reached for the extra cup. ‘Was Mrs Fairly a particular friend of yours?’
    ‘We don’t have particular – you said “was”. Has something happened?’
    ‘I’m afraid I’ve just come from the presbytery,’ he said, pouring tea carefully. ‘Mrs Fairly was found this morning by Father Stephens. Suicide, I’m afraid. No doubt about it at all.’

Five
    ‘Dead?’ Sister Joan’s hand rose automatically to bless herself as she uttered the word.
    ‘I’m afraid so, Sister. We were called in at seven this morning.’
    ‘Not the medical authorities?’ She sipped her tea trying to take in what had happened along with the soothingly hot liquid.
    ‘Father Stephens rang the station. He had dialled 999 and when the operator asked if he wanted Fire, Police or Ambulance he blurted out the latter two. I was on early call so I went along to the presbytery.’
    ‘And she was dead?’
    ‘Had been for several hours according to the doctor. Apparently she gets up around five-thirty every morning and gets everything ready for Father Malone and Father Stephens.’
    ‘One of them comes up to the convent to offer mass at six-thirty in our chapel while the other offers a later mass at seven-fifteen in the parish church,’ Sister Joan nodded. ‘The new priest, Father Timothy, was at the convent this morning.’
    ‘Father Stephens became anxious when six o’clock came and there was no sign of Mrs Fairly but he left it a further half-hour before he tried to rouse her. By then Father Timothy had already left for the convent. Father Stephens rang at once and we got there a couple of minutes ahead of the ambulance.’
    ‘You said – suicide?’ Sister Joan set down her cup and pressed her hands together tightly.
    ‘There was an empty bottle of Valium,’ Detective Sergeant Mill said. ‘It was on her bedside table. Apparently she was prescribed the drug about six years ago after her husband died to help her through the trauma. She went on taking it – no more than a couple of tablets a day but even that amount can become addictive.’
    ‘Then it could have been an accident,’ Sister Joan said eagerly. ‘It’s possible that continual use of a drug can cause it to pile up in the system, perhaps?’
    ‘Not Valium,’ he said. ‘Anyway she’d had her prescription renewed only a couple of days ago. There were forty tablets in the bottle. Father Stephens recalled her taking it out of her shopping bag when she brought in some groceries. She’d evidently crushed the lot into a paste and drunk them with tea and a splash of whisky.’
    ‘How do you know that?’
    ‘She was in the habit of adding a splash of whisky to her last cup of tea at night. She used to brew it in the kitchen and take it up to drink when she was in bed.’
    ‘Whisky and Valium aren’t very safe partners.’
    ‘She