"And yet, in complete contradiction," said the archbishop, "in other respects his views are highly modern. Inappropriately so, I would say."

"Such as?"

"His stance on contraception, for one thing. He's unashamedly in favour. Or his views on homosexuality, divorce and adultery. A couple of weeks ago he baptised a child whose parents weren't married. A priest from another parish, who had refused to do the baptism, came to demand an explanation. Father Ferro told him that he baptised whomever he wished."

His Grace's pipe had gone out. He struck a match and glanced at Quart over the flame. "To sum up," he said, "Mass at Our Lady of the Tears is like travelling in a time machine that jumps backwards and forwards."

"I can imagine," Quart said, suppressing a smile.

"No. I assure you, you can't. You have to see him in action. He performs part of the Mass in Latin, because he says it inspires more respect." Corvo managed to relight his pipe and sat back in his chair, relaxed. "Father Ferro belongs to an almost extinct species: the old-style country priest without training or vocation, ordained simply to escape a life of poverty, who turned even wilder in a godforsaken rural parish. He also has tremendous pride, which makes him quite intractable… In the past we would have excommunicated him immediately, or sent him to America, to see if God the Father could get him to return to the fold thanks to a fever in the Gulf of Darien, and then convert the natives by beating them on the back with a crucifix. But nowadays we have to be very careful. All the journalists and the political manoeuvring complicate things.''

"Why hasn't he been suspended ex informata conscientia? That would allow Your Grace to exclude him from the ministry for confidential reasons, without publicity.'

"He would have to have committed some civil or ecclesiastical offence, which isn't the case. Anyway, that might only strengthen his resolve. I would rather things followed the usual course in the case of ab officio"

"In other words, Monsignor, you would prefer it if Rome dealt with this."

"You've said it, not I." "What about Father Oscar?"

With the pipe still in his mouth the archbishop made a very sour face. I wouldn't like to be in that young priest's shoes, thought Quart.

"Oh, that one's different," said the archbishop. "Good education, seminary in Salamanca. He's thrown a promising future out of the window. Anyway, we have taken care of him. He has until the middle of next week to leave the parish. We're transferring him to a rural diocese in Almeria, a kind of desert near the Cabo de Gata, where he can devote himself to prayer and reflect on the dangers of letting oneself get carried away by youthful enthusiasm."

"Could he be Vespers?"

"Yes. He fits the profile, if that's what you mean. But rooting around in dustbins isn't an archbishop's job." Corvo paused deliberately. "I'll leave that to the IEA and to you."

"What are his duties?" asked Quart, ignoring the remark.

"The usual ones for an assistant priest: he assists during services, performs Mass, takes the afternoon rosary… He also does some building work for Sister Marsala in his spare time."

Quart stiffened in his chair. "Forgive me, Your Grace, did you say Sister Marsala?"

"Yes. Gris Marsala. She's a nun. American, been in Seville for years. An expert – so they say – in restoring religious buildings. Haven't you met her yet?"

Quart, distracted by the sound of pieces of the puzzle clicking into place, paid little attention to the prelate's words. So that was it, he thought. The jarring note. "I met her yesterday. I didn't realise she was a nun."

"Well, she is." Corvo's tone was grim. "She, Father Oscar and Macarena Bruner are Father Ferro's allies. She's here in Seville in a private capacity. She has a dispensation from her order, so she's not under my jurisdiction. I don't have the authority to order her to leave Our Lady of the Tears. Anyway, I can't go persecuting priests and nuns."

He exhaled smoke like a squid hiding behind a cloud of ink. He looked again at Quart's Mont Blanc. "Let me summon the parish priest now," he said. "I called him here for a meeting this morning, but I wanted to talk to you privately first. I think it's time to see what's what, don't you? Let the opposing sides confront each other."

The archbishop glanced at the bell on his desk, next to a well-thumbed copy of The Imitation of Christ by Thomas a Kempis.

"One last point, Quart. I don't like you, but you're a career priest, and you know as well as I that even in this profession there are plenty of mediocrities. Father Ferro is one of them." He took his pipe out of his mouth and gestured at the bound volumes lining his study walls. "All the thinking of the Church – from Saint Augustine to Saint Thomas, and the encyclicals of all the pontiffs – is here within these four walls, and I'm its temporal administrator. I have to deal with stocks and shares while maintaining a vow of poverty, make pacts with enemies and sometimes condemn friends… Every morning I sit at this desk and, with God's help, I manage priests of all kinds: intelligent, stupid, fanatical, honest, wicked; political priests, priests opposed to celibacy, saints and sinners. Given time, we would have sorted out this problem with Father Ferro. But now you and Rome have stepped in, so it's up to you. Roma locuta, causa finita. From now on I'm just an observer. May the Almighty forgive me, but I'm washing my hands of the whole business and leaving the field for the executioners." He rang the bell and motioned towards the door. "Let's not keep Father Ferro waiting any longer."

Quart slowly screwed the cap back on his pen and put it in his pocket, together with the cards covered with his cramped, meticulous handwriting. He sat well forward in his chair, rigid, at attention.

"I have my orders, Monsignor," he said. "And I follow them to the letter."

His Grace grimaced. "I wouldn't want your job, Quart," he said at last. "I assure you, by my soul's salvation, I wouldn't want it one little bit."

Seville Oranges and Blossom

"Now you've seen a hero,' he said. 'And that's worth something.' Eckermann, Conversations with Goethe

"I believe you've met," said His Grace.

He sat in his armchair like a boxing referee who keeps well back so as not to get his shoes spattered with blood. Quart and Father Ferro looked at each other in silence. The parish priest of Our Lady of the Tears refused to sit when Corvo offered him a chair. Small and obstinate, he stood in the middle of the study, with his face that looked as if it had been hewn with a chisel, and his untidy white hair. As usual, he wore an old, threadbare cassock and a huge pair of scuffed shoes.

"Father Quart would like to ask you some questions," added the archbishop.

The priest's face, covered with wrinkles and scars, remained impassive. He stared blankly out of the window, where the blurred ochre outline of La Giralda was visible through the net curtains.

"I have nothing to say to Father Quart."

Corvo nodded slowly, as if he'd expected such an answer. "Very well," he said. "But I am your bishop, Don Priamo. And you owe me a vow of obedience." He took his pipe from his mouth and gestured with it to the two priests, one after the other. "So, if you prefer, you may give me your answers to Father Quart's questions."

For a moment there was uncertainty in Father Ferro's dark, dull eyes. "That's ridiculous," he said abruptly, half-turning to Quart, whom he held responsible.

The archbishop smiled disagreeably.

"I know it is," he said. "But this Jesuitical device will keep us all happy. Father Quart can do his job, I'll be glad to witness your conversation, and you will ensure that your incredible pride isn't compromised." He blew out a puff of smoke menacingly and leaned to one side. His eyes shone in anticipated amusement. "You may now begin, Father Quart. He's all yours."