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Carmel gave a benign smile. ‘Yes, we encourage him, for who knows, he may join the clergy one day.’

‘Or he may become a world expert on Caravaggio.’

‘He may. He is a very polite child, well raised, with curiosity and a gentle manner. His mother’s around somewhere working.’

Peter nodded and returned to the business at hand. ‘My role on the day of the royal visit, assuming it can be arranged,’ he said, ‘is to simply stand by in case either of Their Majesties might like to know more about the artist.’ He hoped that sounded non-threatening, mindful of not being seen as an interfering Brit. ‘I may not be required to say anything, of course, in which case I shall count myself a lucky bystander. But I am on hand to help at a single glance.’

‘Good to know, because I will be quite busy with another task, just as important for the Order of St John.’

Peter raised his brows in query and Carmel obliged with an immediate answer.

‘Soon I will go to Rome, helping with the arrangements for the long-awaited restoration of The Beheading of Saint John the Baptist. We think Florence for the restoration, and then it will be sent to Rome for the year-long exhibition.’

‘Marvellous.’ Peter grinned with envy.

‘We also want to see if we can reveal that signature… if one exists.’

Peter nodded. ‘You have documents, don’t you?’

‘Yes, from a quarter of a century ago, but I will only believe it when my own eyes encounter it. This is the first time this painting will be properly cleaned. You know he didn’t sign many.’

Peter couldn’t stop himself tapping his nose knowingly. ‘Carmel, he didn’t sign any that we’re aware of at this point, other than this one. So I’m full of hope.’

Carmel seemed as excited as Peter felt. ‘We were told that you are a global authority on this painter, Mr Fox. We are truly beyond delighted that someone of your standing is here when we are expecting a royal visit, and taking such an interest in our works.’

‘It’s more than simply because our Queen is visiting. If we’re ever going to discover a signature, I truly believe we’ll find it in this restoration. This painting meant much to the artist. Gosh… I envy you being in Rome to share the historic moment.’

‘You’ll be the first to know.’ The man smiled. ‘I am reliably informed that you are writing a book on Caravaggio. You must come and see the exhibition, in case it forms another chapter for your book. I will gladly add your name to the first delegation.’

Peter drew in a sharp breath of possibility. ‘Thank you. I shall take you up on it.’

‘Are you married?’ the man asked.

The change in topic took Peter by surprise. ‘I am, but⁠—’

‘Then you must bring your better half too. Stay on, have a holiday. Heaven knows we all need to rebuild ties with Italy after the war.’ Carmel turned away, suddenly frowning. ‘Oh dear, it looks as though the cleaner is in the oratory. Did you want to see the Caravaggio now?’

Peter could just make out the bent figure of the cleaner, attending to scrubbing the floor, which was in fact made up of tombs. He absently wondered if the woman realised this. ‘I was going to, but I can come back,’ Peter said, not wanting to disturb anyone’s work. ‘Yes, yes, anytime. Frankly, I think the woman is obsessed with the oratory. She spends more time cleaning in there than any other part of the cathedral. Come, let me show you out. Or maybe I can persuade you to take coffee with me?’

Peter would have liked something stronger, to match his uplifted mood, but he graciously dipped his head. ‘That would be most welcome.’

Carmel escorted him towards the main entrance and as they passed the oratory, Peter helplessly glanced towards the painting that never failed to fascinate him. The boy he’d seen earlier was standing in front of it, and now raised his hand and waved.

Peter waved back and only then noticed the woman on her knees not too far from the boy, cleaning the floor. He could see the tips of her shoes poking out from beneath her folded legs, and she seemed to be taking care, her long fingers almost caressing the Latin on the tombstone as if reading it while she cleaned. He got the impression that she was young, and her shapeless clothes couldn’t hide a shapely figure. He looked away in case the man of the church noticed him staring and followed Carmel towards the main cathedral doors.

Valentina sat back on her heels and gave a soft groan, stretching out her back. ‘Who were you waving to?’ she asked Danjel.

‘Carmel was talking to some man.’

‘Some man?’ she repeated, grinning. She eased her legs to straighten, coming to stand. She wasn’t old enough to complain of arthritic pain, but she defied anyone to kneel on granite for as long as she had and not wince.

Danjel shrugged. ‘I didn’t recognise him. Not one of us. Very tall. Light-haired.’

‘A visitor,’ she said, giving him the right word.

‘A stranger,’ he decided upon. ‘But he did wave back.’

‘Don’t wave to strangers, Danjel. How many times do I have to tell you this?’