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‘Her father, Enriku, died a few years ago, and her mother, bless her soul, died not long after Leni’s son was born. Her heart, we think, but we don’t know.’ Maria sighed. ‘Ganni was killed during the war, and her other brother, Matteo, now lives in Canada. We hear he’s happy and married.’

‘But Valentina is still in Valletta?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. I’ll hope to see her again while I’m in the city. I brought something for her, just in case she was still here.’

Maria nodded. ‘She will be so pleased. I must go, Peter. It is wonderful to see you healed, and you haven’t changed either. How come the rest of us got old and you didn’t?’

He laughed as he knew he was meant to and kissed her on the cheek. ‘I’ll hope to see you again before I go.’

‘I’ll be lining the streets to welcome Queen Elizabeth. She makes us all swoon with her beauty and handsome husband and gorgeous frocks. You can tell her that from me.’

‘If I get a chance,’ he said and waved goodbye.

He returned to his beer and as he sipped, memories of Valentina roared into his mind. He could hardly imagine that funny, smart, precocious kid being a mother now. Blimey but that made him feel old. He’d left as she was turning sixteen, so that would make her twenty-seven around now. Had she ever been given the chance to spread her wings and fly as high as he sensed she could? It felt doubtful, given her impending marriage and what he knew about the culture. But time had changed much about Malta; perhaps things were different for women. Valentina had deserved to pursue her ambition, deserved more than a life of being a wife and a mother…

He halted his thoughts, telling himself to stop being so boorish. She probably matured and found she loved married life, even though he recalled her doubts about the boy her parents had chosen. After all, Delia had enjoyed homemaking, had wanted a child – children – to care for. That didn’t make her any less fulfilled.

He was suddenly embarrassed at how easily Delia had slipped out of his thoughts. What a terrible man he was. He worried about a child he’d known in a different life, more than a decade ago when the world was at war, but he could barely spare two thoughts for the woman he had been married to for years.

Ah well, this was the new Peter, he decided; the fourth incarnation, he thought, smiling to himself. There was prewar Peter, carefree and ambitious. Then wartime Peter, exuberant, reckless even. Next had been postwar Peter, dulled, bored, unhappy. But now this was the real him: cheerful, all but whistling as he woke up, feeling optimistic, finding his humour again, loving his work and feeling useful, ambitious, even proud of knowing he was good at his job.

It felt healing to experience the notion that it was good to be alive, and it helped too to feel the sun on his face, the smell of the sea, the taste of the Mediterranean’s salt on his lips and the last of the sirocco winds from Africa blowing out the cobwebs of his life, making him feel clean and new again.

He cast his gaze back to St John’s Co-Cathedral, his favourite place in all of Malta. It was time. Time to go in, time to start planning for Their Majesties’ visit and time to reacquaint himself with the artist about whom he planned to write a book.

Peter checked his watch. Yes. One of the cathedral officials would be waiting.

EIGHTEEN

Peter stepped into the dimmed, hallowed silence of the cathedral, and two men looked over from where they were studying some notes and smiled. ‘Mr Fox?’ one of them called.

‘Yes, do call me Peter, please. Thank you for meeting me,’ he said, striding over to shake the men’s hands.

‘I am Carmel, and this is Tonio,’ one man said, gesturing to the other. ‘I’m afraid he does not speak much English.’

‘But yours is perfect.’ Peter smiled. The man gave a shy but pleased shrug. ‘Are you curators? Sorry, I wasn’t given comprehensive information.’

‘We are both ecclesiastical staff,’ he explained and then spoke in Maltese to his colleague, who gave a short bow and departed.

‘Please excuse Tonio. He has some tasks to attend to. So,’ Carmel continued. ‘Their Majesties will be here in a few days.’

‘Indeed. I realise a visit to the cathedral is not scheduled, but I’m certain she’ll wish to see it.’

‘And we’re very keen that she does. I presume there will be other officials arriving ahead of the main delegation?’

‘Oh, I would imagine so. I’m not privy to all the detail. I’ve been sent mostly because I know a bit about Caravaggio,’ Peter said, hoping that sounded modest. ‘Er, my superiors felt it would be helpful to have someone outside of Their Majesties’ cohort in attendance who knew about the two important Caravaggio paintings here, which presumably the royals will enjoy viewing.’

The man gave a soft nod with his head, more like a bow, acknowledging the compliment. ‘They are certainly at the top of the list for everyone who visits, though of course, as you can see, we don’t lack artwork.’ He gave a laugh as he waved an arm in a small circle, indicating the space around them.

Peter chuckled. ‘Indeed,’ he said, letting his gaze roam across the gilded opulence of the cathedral. Even though he’d seen it many times now, it was enough to make one dizzy.

Some movement caught his eye, and he noticed a child walking near the oratory.

Carmel followed his gaze. ‘That’s Danjel. He’s the son of one of our regular cleaners. Believe it or not, the boy seems to have an intense interest in Caravaggio.’

‘How extraordinary,’ Peter remarked. ‘You must encourage him.’