‘Excuse the bike. I got a puncture this afternoon. I need to repair it so I can get out and about tomorrow.’ He opened the back door and put the bike and wheel outside.
‘You don’t have a car?’
‘My vows of poverty mean I can’t have one. The bike keeps me fit; though I must admit I dislike riding in the rain.’
A pot was simmering on the stove, giving off a mouth-watering aroma which instantly made Jane feel hungry.
‘It smells delicious. What did you say it was called?’
‘Soppa tal-armla. It’s a popular Maltese winter soup made with vegetables, potatoes and tomatoes. I just need to add some cubes of goat’s cheese for a few minutes, then it’s ready to eat.’
‘Does tal-armla mean vegetables in Maltese?’
He started stirring the soup with a large wooden spoon. ‘The literal translation is “of the widow”, thus it’s commonly known as widow’s soup. The name originates from the medieval practice of gifting penniless, widowed women with vegetables and other available produce, which they would use to make filling soups.’
‘I can’t wait to try it, Father.’
‘Please call me Chris,’ he smiled.
‘Well, seeing as we are both technically off duty, you must call me Jane.’
He placed two wicker table mats, side plates, cutlery, and napkins neatly down on the small table, then pulled out a chair. ‘Please, take a seat.’ He gently slid it back in as Jane sat down, then unfolded a napkin and handed it to her.
‘Would you like a glass of red wine with your soup? It’s a Chianti,’ he said, holding up the bottle.
‘Only if you’re having one.’
Chris poured two glasses and handed one to Jane. ‘Cheers,’ she said, raising her glass.
He smiled. ‘Cheers. Here’s to a successful outcome to your investigation.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ Jane replied, taking a sip of wine.
‘I made some Maltese sourdough bread earlier. Would you like some with your soup?’
She nodded. ‘You obviously like cooking.’
‘I used to help my mother in the kitchen when I was young. I find cooking relaxing, though it’s generally just meals for myself. Having company is a pleasant change.’
He cut four slices of bread on a wooden chopping board which he then placed on the table. He ladled some soup into two bowls, sprinkled some chopped parsley on top, then put the bowls on the wicker mats before sitting down.
‘It can be served with a poached egg on top, but I used my last two for breakfast, I’m afraid.’
‘It looks delicious as it is,’ Jane said, picking up her spoon. She noticed Chris had bowed his head, with his palms pressed together. On impulse, she followed suit.
‘Bless us, O Lord, and these, thy gifts, which we are about to receive from thy bounty. Through Christ, our Lord. Amen.’ He made the sign of the cross. ‘Help yourself to some bread, Jane. I like to dunk it in the soup,’ he said, picking up a spoon and fork.
Although the soup looked appetising, she noticed it had cauliflower florets in it, a vegetable she had never liked. Using her fork to cut a small bit off she scooped it up in her spoon with some of the soup. Her opinion of cauliflower was instantly transformed as the flavour enveloped her taste buds. Next, she tried a bit of the cheese, which literally melted in her mouth. She dipped her bread in the soup, took a bite, and raised her wine glass.
‘My compliments, Chef Chris. I can honestly say I’ve never tasted a soup like this. It’s absolutely delicious.’
Chris raised his glass with a smile. ‘I’m glad you like it.’
‘Without a name for our victim, finding out what happened to all the nuns living at the convent over a hundred years is going to be a massive task. My intention is to work backwards in ten-year periods from the day the convent closed.’
‘Some of the nuns will still be alive,’ he pointed out. ‘They may be working in other convents or parishes.’
‘They shouldn’t be hard to trace, then.’
‘There is one problem you may encounter, though.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Which is...?’
‘In some convents, nuns change their names to reflect the change that has happened in their lives. Sometimes they can suggest a new name, but it’s often up to the Mother Superior to decide on it.’
Jane sighed. ‘That could make things a lot more complicated.’
‘It might be worth trying to locate the last Mother Superior. The diocese should know where she is.’
Jane nodded, swallowing a mouthful of soup. ‘What about the orphan children who lived in the convent? Will there be a record of them?’
‘I’d imagine so, and Bromley Council may have a record as well. Would you like some more wine?’ he asked, lifting the bottle.
She picked up her glass. ‘Just a drop, thank you.’
He topped up both their glasses and offered Jane another slice of bread.
‘It’s just a thought,’ she said, ‘but is there a specific religious shop where nuns and priests get their clothing?’
‘There is for us. I’m not sure about nuns. Why do you ask?’
‘I didn’t check the habit at the mortuary. A maker’s label might help identify a period when it was made and narrow the timeline of our victim’s death. I’ll get our forensic guy to take a look.’
‘That’s clever thinking.’
‘Not really. It’s something I picked up from an experienced colleague on a previous case. I should have thought to do it at the mortuary.’
He admired her modesty. ‘It must be hard to concentrate after such a gruesome discovery.’
‘You kind of get used to it, but I’d be lying if I said it’s never upsetting — not so much at the time, as you’ve a lot to think about, but later, when you are off duty. Dealing with grieving families is hard, but you have to be strong for their sake. It must be the same for you.’
He nodded. ‘Yes, it is, especially when it’s children or babies who have died. I was wondering... would it be possible for me to visit the deceased nun in the mortuary and say a prayer for her?’
‘Certainly. Under the circumstances that would seem to be very appropriate. Are you free tomorrow afternoon?’
‘Yes. After one would be best.’
‘I’ll pick you up at around quarter past one,’ she said, knowing he didn’t have a car.
‘There’s no need to put yourself out. If you give me the address, I’ll cycle there.’
‘It’s no bother. I can let you know how my meeting went on the way to the mortuary.’
Jane savoured her last spoonful of soup and put the spoon in the bowl. ‘That was pure heaven.’
‘I doubt the angels make it as good as my mother did,’ he joked, and Jane laughed. ‘Would you like some more?’
‘I’m full, thanks,’ she said, patting her stomach.
‘Would you like some more wine... or a coffee?
Jane said a coffee with milk would be fine. Chris filled a kettle, put it on the hob and spooned some instant coffee into a cup.
‘Would you like to try some kwarezimal with your coffee?’ he asked, picking up a round cake tin from the work surface and removing the lid. He put the tin on the table.
‘Did you make these as well?’ Jane asked, admiring the inch-thick, oval-shaped, chocolate-coloured biscuits.
‘Yes. Basically, they’re made with orange water, cocoa, ground almonds and spices, then coated with honey and almond slivers. They’re best straight out of the oven, but I can warm some up for you.’
‘No need. They look delicious.’ She picked one up and took a bite.