“One of the more sensible ones,” I replied. “You’d better do the talking from now on, and refer to me by my married name.”

But it didn’t come to that. No sooner had we taken two steps toward the convent than another nun had come running out of the doors firing a small pistol and screaming at the top of her voice that I was a ‘procreating girl dog,’ but not using those precise words. I was used to being called that, of course, but rarely by a nun. She had loosed off two shots by the time she’d been adroitly rugger-tackled to the ground by two other nuns, and Finisterre and I, caught out by the sudden violence, had not had time to move a muscle and had simply stood there as one of the shots passed between us at head level with a zip and the second passed cleanly through my shoulder bag, penetrating not just my purse and notebook but also a picture of Landen.

Finisterre and I stared at each other as an unseemly fight developed in front of us, our assailant being finally subdued by two additional nuns, both of whom I suspected might actually be men. The gun was wrested from her hands, and she was sat upon while she struggled, howled and screamed the sorts of obscenities that would embarrass a docker.

“I’m sorry about that,” said one of the other nuns, who had a cut lip and a wimple now dented and askew, “but we all joined the order for different reasons, and . . . well, some of us have a lot of repressed anger.”

“Against me?” I asked.

“I’m afraid so. Daisy always swore to kill you the next time you met—that was why she has closeted herself here. To protect herself and you from her rage.”

“Should we take this up with the mother superior?”

“Daisy is the mother superior. We’ll have to wait until she calms down. By the way, we all think Joffy is remarkable even if he is a man.”

“No one’s perfect.”

“Right. And we thank him for pointing out the error of our veneration. We all felt a bit silly to begin with, but when our mistake was plainly spelled out, we were more than happy to change four centuries of loyal tradition.”

“Perhaps I should leave?” I said. “And let Finisterre speak to Mother Daisy on his own?”

“No, no, no,” replied the nun, “she’ll be fine. She just has to compose herself. Forgiveness, companionship, self-control and not reading in the toilet are but four of the ninety-seven simple rules we live our lives by.”

Mother Daisy was indeed calming down, and after another five minutes the others thought it safe to stop sitting on her and she got to her feet, covered in grass clippings and a bit bruised. She smoothed her habit, took a deep breath and approached us both.