The words were insulting, but the tone was polite, so Quart could not object. His Grace opened a drawer, took out a tin of English tobacco, and began filling his pipe, leaving it to Quart to keep up the conversation. Quart bowed his head slightly, and only from his eyes was it possible to sec that he was smiling. But the archbishop wasn't looking.

"Of course, Monsignor. The Institute for External Affairs will do everything possible to sort out this mess." He noted with satisfaction that His Grace tensed. "Maybe 'mess' is not the right word…"

Monsignor Corvo almost lost his composure, but he recovered himself admirably. He said nothing for several seconds while he filled his pipe. When at last he spoke, his tone was sharp: "You're too big for your boots, aren't you? You and your mafiosi in Rome. Playing God's police."

Quart held the archbishop's gaze calmly. "Your Grace's words are harsh."

"Don't give me that 'Your Grace' business. I know why you're here in Seville, and I know what your boss, Archbishop Spada, has to lose over this."

"We all have a lot to lose in this matter, Monsignor."

This was true, and the archbishop knew it. Cardinal Iwaszkiewicz was dangerous, but so were Paolo Spada and even Quart himself. As for Father Ferro, he was a walking time bomb that had to be deactivated. In the Church, harmony was often a question of keeping up appearances, but in the case of Our Lady of the Tears, appearances were being seriously threatened.

"Listen, Quart," said Corvo, trying to sound conciliatory. "I don't want to make my life complicated, and this business is getting out of hand. I admit that the thought of a scandal fills me with terror. I don't want to be seen by the public as a prelate blackmailing a poor parish priest to make a profit from selling the land. Do you understand?"

Quart nodded, accepting the olive branch.

"Anyway," the archbishop went on, "the whole thing might backfire on the Cartujano, because of the wife or ex-wife, I'm not sure which, of the man managing the operation, Pencho Gavira. He has a lot of influence and he's on the up. But he and Macarena have serious personal problems. And she's come out openly on Father Ferro's side."

"Is she devout?"

The archbishop laughed dryly. That wasn't exactly the word, he said. She'd recently been scandalising high society in Seville, which wasn't easy to shock. "Maybe it would be useful for you to talk to her," he said to Quart. "And to her mother, the old duchess. If they withdraw their support, we might be able to put Father Ferro in his place while we're waiting for his suspension and the demolition notice."

Quart had taken some cards from his pocket to make notes; he always used the back of visiting cards, either other people's or his own. The archbishop stared disapprovingly at Quart's Mont Blanc fountain pen. Maybe he felt it was unsuitable for a clergyman.

"How long has the process for issuing the demolition notice been stopped?" asked Quart.

Corvo now looked anxious. "Since the deaths," he said cautiously.

"In rather mysterious circumstances, from what I've heard."

About to light his pipe, the archbishop frowned. There was nothing mysterious about them, he told Quart. Just two cases of bad luck. The municipal architect, a certain Mr Penuelas, was commissioned by the city council to draw up the demolition notice. An unpleasant man, he had a couple of notable run-ins with Father Ferro, who wasn't exactly an example of pleasantness himself. During the course of Penuelas's inspection, a wooden handrail on the scaffolding gave way, and he fell from the roof, impaling himself on a metal pole protruding from some half-assembled structure below. "Was anybody with him?" asked Quart.

Corvo shook his head. He understood Quart's implication. "No, nothing suspicious in that sense. Another council employee was there at the time. Father Oscar, the assistant priest, was also present. It was he who pronounced the last rites."

"And Your Grace's secretary?"

The archbishop, eyes half-closed, blew out a puff of smoke. The aroma of the English tobacco reached Quart. "That was more painful. Father Urbizu had worked with me for years." He paused, as if he felt he ought to add something in memory of the deceased. "An excellent man."

Quart nodded sympathetically. "An excellent man," he repeated thoughtfully. "They say he was putting pressure on Father Ferro on Your Grace's behalf."

Monsignor Corvo didn't like that at all. He took the pipe out of his mouth and scowled at Quart. "That's a nasty way of putting it. And an exaggeration." Quart noticed that the archbishop was tapping impatiently on the table. "I can't go round churches arguing with the priests. So Urbizu had meetings in my name with Father Ferro. But Father Ferro refused to budge, and some of their discussions became rather heated. Father Oscar even threatened my secretary."

"Father Oscar again?"

"Yes. Oscar Lobato. He had an impressive CV, and I assigned him to Our Lady of the Tears so that he would eventually replace the old priest. As in that Bing Crosby film…"

"GoingMy Way" prompted Quart.

"Well, he certainly did that. Within a week, my Trojan horse had gone over to the enemy. I've taken steps, of course." The archbishop made a gesture as if to sweep Father Lobato out of the way. "My secretary continued to pay visits to the church and the two priests. I even decided to remove the image of Our Lady of the Tears. It's an ancient carving and very valuable. But on the very day poor Urbizu was going to tell them, a chunk of cornice fell from the ceiling and smashed his skull.'' "Was there an investigation?"

The archbishop blinked at Quart in silence, his pipe in his mouth, as if he hadn't heard the question. "Yes," he said at last. "Because this time there were no witnesses, and I took it… Well… personally." He laid his hand on his chest. Quart thought of Spada's words: He's sworn not to leave a single stone standing. "But the investigation concluded that there was no evidence of murder."

"Did the report rule out the possibility of foul play?"

"No, but technically that would have been almost impossible. The stone fell from the ceiling. "Nobody could have thrown it from there."

"Except Providence."

"Don't play the fool, Quart."

"That wasn't my intention, Monsignor. I'm only trying to test the truth of Vespers' claim that the church itself killed Father Urbizu. And the other man."

"That's outrageous and absurd. And exactly what I'm afraid of: that people will start muttering about the supernatural, with us involved, as if this were a Stephen King novel. We've already got a journalist hanging about. An unpleasant character who's been digging into the story. He works for a gossip magazine called Q amp;S. They've just published photos of Macarena Bruner in a compromising situation with a bullfighter. Be careful if you come across the journalist. His name is Honorato Bonafe."

Quart shrugged. "Vespers pointed a finger at the church. He said it kills to defend itself."

"Yes. Very dramatic. Now tell me, to defend itself from whom? From us? The bank? The Evil One? I have my own ideas about Vespers."

"Would you care to share them, Monsignor?"

When Aquilino Corvo lowered his guard, his dislike of Quart was clearly visible. It showed in his eyes for a few seconds and was then hidden behind the pipe smoke. "Do your own work," he said. "That's what you're here for."

Quart smiled, polite, disciplined. "Well, would Your Grace care to tell me about Father Ferro, then?"

For the next five minutes, puffing on his pipe and showing little sign of pastoral charity, Corvo told the parish priest's life story. From his twenties to the age of fifty-four, a rough village priest in a remote part of the Alto Aragon, a godforsaken place where all his parishioners gradually died, until he was left without a congregation. Followed by ten years at Our Lady of the Tears. Uncouth, fanatical, uneducated and stubborn as a mule. Without the slightest sense of what was possible, the sort who believed omnia sunt possibilia creienti, who couldn't distinguish between their own point of view and the reality surrounding them. Quart ought to go and hear one of his Sunday sermons, the prelate said. Quite a show. Father Ferro dealt in the torments of hell with the ease of a Counter-Reformation preacher; he kept his parishioners on the edge of their seats with the old tale of eternal damnation that nobody dared use any more. A sigh of relief swept through the pews when he finished his sermon.