I walked along a paved path, lined with clumps of lavender and other herbs doing their best to obfuscate the stink of the surrounding land. The trees gave cool shade and there was birdsong, not wild birds singing, but poor creatures trapped in cages suspended from the roof of a covered walkway where two old nuns were folding laundry. I could hear the rumble of washing machines coming from a small outbuilding beyond, smell the artificial perfume of detergent.

As I drew close, the nuns turned and I recognised the elder: it was the nun I’d met at the memorial wall.

I bowed to each of them, and the older nun explained to the younger that I was English and, fortunately, the younger spoke English fluently. I told her I was seeking information about someone who had stayed at the convent fifty years ago.

The nuns considered this for a moment, then the younger one beckoned me to follow her. ‘Sister Alfonsa,’ she told me with a smile. ‘She remembers everything!’

Sister Alfonsa was a very old lady with only a handful of teeth left in her mouth. She also had trouble hearing so ours was a difficult conversation conducted with help from the young nun, who translated for us, speaking to Sister Alfonsa with the help of an old-fashioned ear trumpet. I asked Sister Alfonsa if she remembered a young woman called Gina who had stayed here once, a tall girl who liked to paint. The old woman’s face lit up. Did I mean Gina Accardi? Of course she remembered Gina, she’d never forget her; such a kind and vivacious girl.

‘We used to have breakfast together,’ the old nun said. ‘Gina ate early, before our other guests, because she had to catch the early bus to work in Ragusa. She had a good appetite.’ She smiled and nodded, clasped her hands together, sucked in her lips. I was delighted that the nun remembered; it had been worth coming all this way.

‘Where did Gina work?’ I asked.

‘At the bakery in the piazza at Ragusa. They were famous for their cannoli pastries. They were always busy, especially in the summer.’

‘Do you remember when you last saw her?’

‘One morning.’

‘An ordinary morning?’

‘A Friday. It was the day before Ferragosto.’

‘That’s a big religious festival in August,’ the young nun explained to me.

‘Was anything different that day?’

The old woman shook her head. ‘We ate our usual breakfast and then Gina cleared away and laid the table for the other guests. She left for work at the usual time but she never came back. That was the last we saw of her.’

‘And she hadn’t said anything about… not coming back?’

‘Not a word. That morning, we talked for a long time. She was troubled. She’d received a postcard from her best friend. The friend had been delayed in Rome and Gina was upset about it.’