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Valentina found herself standing next to Peter, aware of the heat from his body. Her desire for him mingled with her desire to run away from her life, just as Caravaggio had run from his, and the heat of her fresh inspiration that burned like a powerful flame within.
Carmel was giving Queen Elizabeth a very quick summary of the artwork, and she was listening intently, eyes on the painting, nodding, half-smiling. The brightness of her full-skirted yellow dress, cinched at the waist and trimmed with white, punctuated the dim light of the oratory. Valentina could only imagine the colour it would throw off beneath the Mediterranean’s gorgeous sun, the dress carefully chosen, no doubt, for its impact. The Queen looked like a shining goddess in this space.
Valentina hadn’t been paying attention, lost in her thoughts about the beautiful young sovereign, and suddenly heads were turning, Carmel was pointing and Peter was moving. Valentina watched him bow elegantly before the Queen.
‘I think this is more a query for you,’ Carmel said to Peter. ‘Your Majesty, this gentleman knows more about Caravaggio than anyone I could name.’
‘Peter Fox, Your Majesty. I’m from the Courtauld Institute in London.’
‘Ah, marvellous,’ the Queen replied. ‘I’ve enjoyed hearing all the swashbuckling and intrigue behind this painting and its artist.’
Peter beamed. ‘It has an intriguing backstory, Your Majesty, and Caravaggio was a helpless headliner, to use one of today’s phrases.’
‘We have some Caravaggio paintings in Britain, do we not, Mr Fox?’ the Queen asked.
Valentina listened intently. Her Majesty’s voice was not loud, but she formed her words so precisely that each one had its own space, its own perfectly spoken syllables.
‘Your Majesty, we do indeed. We have at least one in the Royal Collection attributed to Caravaggio, as well as others we feel might have been painted by his followers. We also have his work in private collections on loan to the public, and of course the National Gallery has notable pieces. I do hope that one day we might acquire another significant piece – a companion piece, you might say, to this one. This is The Beheading of Saint John the Baptist.’
Peter succinctly described how this painting had come into being, the moment captured in the piece, and the story behind the moment.
The Queen was quick to understand. ‘Of course, Salome Receives the Head of John the Baptist.’
‘Indeed, Your Majesty. Painted in 1607. He painted two of the same subject.’
The Queen smiled back. ‘Now, I’m told, Mr Fox, that Caravaggio hasn’t signed a single one of his paintings. Isn’t that odd?’
Peter gave a soft sigh, shaking his head. ‘It is unusual, but if I had more time, ma’am, I’d explain what an outlier this artist was in so many ways. I have no explanation for his decision, but we do believe there is one exception.’
‘Oh, really?’ The Queen looked intrigued.
‘Yes, Your Majesty.’ Peter leaned in slightly, almost conspiratorially. ‘If you’ll permit me, I’ll bring in a local expert who may have an interesting titbit to share with you.’
When the Queen nodded her permission, Peter turned and gestured to Valentina. This can’t be happening, she thought, her throat constricting immediately. Everyone had turned to watch her. She felt like a wooden toy, moving her stiff legs towards Peter, who was grinning so broadly she was sure his face might split in half. He was giving her a moment to shine. She glanced at Carmel, who was just as encouraging.
‘Your Majesty,’ Peter began, as Valentina did her best curtsy, ‘this is Mrs Valentina Falzon, who probably knows almost as much as I do about Caravaggio. She is a local of Valletta and has a passion for this artwork in particular.’
The Queen turned her gaze fully on Valentina, her eyes like a pair of glittering sapphires; an extraordinary blue that seemed to have their own light. ‘Oh, well done. I do enjoy meeting women who have a passion for a subject that stretches beyond domestic life.’ The Queen smiled, and it felt to Valentina as though it were just for her. ‘Tell me about your city’s magnificent painting.’
Valentina could believe there was no one else but the two of them in the oratory, such was the Queen’s ability to make someone feel special. She swallowed her fear and awe and spoke clearly. ‘Your Majesty, The Beheading of Saint John the Baptist has hung in the oratory for centuries. It was painted for this space, so it has essentially been left alone, although during the later part of the war it was rolled up and stored here in the cathedral. I suppose they were fearful of damage from bombing raids, but they did more damage in trying to protect it.’
‘Oh, pity,’ the Queen replied sadly.
‘It is going for a restoration, though, in Florence as I understand it, and we hope that repair and cleaning will reveal what everyone believes exists, which is a signature. The archives tell us it exists, but no one here has seen it.’
Valentina took a moment to draw breath, flicking her eyes towards Peter. He gave her a nod.
‘How exciting,’ the Queen remarked, eyes sparkling with the intrigue. ‘Please go on, Valentina. So he signed it?’
She’d uttered her name! ‘That’s what we believe, Your Majesty. If we can clean up the painting properly after centuries of dust and dirt, we may reveal a signature. I have looked at this painting almost every day of my adult life, and I suspect it might be written in the blood.’
‘Good grief,’ Peter remarked over the Queen’s response of ‘Is that so?’
Carmel looked shocked too. ‘Uh, we can’t be sure of this…’
But it was Valentina’s moment and she seized it. ‘No, we can’t, but do you see the old woman witnessing the execution?’
Everyone turned to regard the painting, and Valentina suddenly felt as though she was giving a lecture. She’d thought long and hard about this for years, never fully allowing herself to believe, but learning about the restoration had convinced her that a signature would be revealed.
