"His Holiness once granted me an audience," the old duchess told Quart. "And to Macarena too, after her wedding."

She bowed her head slightly as she reminisced. Over a third of a century and the reigns of several popes must have elapsed between her visit to Rome and her daughter's, but she referred to His Holiness as if it was the same man. Quart reflected that in some ways this was logical. At seventy, things either changed too fast or not at all.

Father Ferro still stared sullenly into his cup, and Macarena watched Quart. The duchess of El Nuevo Extremo's daughter was in jeans and a blue checked shirt. Her hair was in a ponytail and she wore no makeup. She looked relaxed and sure of herself as she poured the hot chocolate and coffee, attentive to her mother and the guests, Quart in particular. She seemed amused by the situation.

"What do you think of our church, Father?" asked Cruz Bruner as she sipped her Coca-Cola and smiled affably, her fan in her lap. Her voice, despite her age, was firm and serene. She waited for his answer. Quart smiled politely, aware also of Macarena's gaze.

"It is much loved," he said non-committally. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the dark, silent figure of Father Ferro. Here, in the presence of the duchess and her daughter, they were on neutral ground. On arriving, they had exchanged conventional greetings, but the rest of the time they were careful not to say a word to each other. Quart sensed, however, that this was the prelude to something. Nobody invites a scalp hunter and his supposed victim for coffee without having a purpose in mind.

"Don't you think it would be a shame to lose it?" insisted the duchess.

"I hope that will never happen," Quart said reassuringly.

"We had thought that was why you came to Seville," said Macarena Bruner pointedly.

Quart could see the ivory necklace round her neck and wondered if this afternoon too the plastic cigarette lighter was tucked under her bra strap. He would have willingly spent two months in Purgatory to see Father Ferro's expression as she used it to light a cigarette.

"No," he said. "I'm here because my superiors want a precise picture of the situation." He sipped his coffee and carefully placed the cup back on the inlaid table. "Nobody's trying to remove Father Ferro from his parish."

Father Ferro stiffened. "Aren't they?" He raised his scarred face to the galleries above them, as if somebody were about to appear there. "I can think of several people and institutions. The archbishop, for instance. The Cartujano Bank. The duchess's son-in-law…" He shot a suspicious glance at Quart. "And don't tell me that Rome's losing sleep now over a small church and its priest."

I have your measure, his look said. So don't give me all your fine words. Quart, sensing Macarena's eyes on him, tried to conciliate. "Rome cares about all churches and all priests."

"You must be joking," said Father Ferro, and he laughed coldly.

Cruz Bruner tapped the priest's arm affectionately with her fan. "I'm sure Father Quart isn't joking, Don Priamo," she said and looked at Quart for confirmation. "He seems a fine, upright priest. I think his mission is important. And since he's here to gather information, we ought to co-operate." She glanced quickly at her daughter and then fanned herself wearily. "The truth never harmed anyone."

Father Ferro inclined his head, respectful but stubborn. "I wish I shared your innocence, madam." He drank his hot chocolate, and it dripped down his badly shaven chin. He wiped it with a huge, filthy handkerchief which he pulled from the pocket of his cassock. "But I fear that in the Church, as in the rest of life, almost all truths are lies."

"You shouldn't say such things." The duchess was half-shocked, half-jesting. "You'll be damned." She opened and closed her fan.

Then, Quart saw Father Ferro smile properly for the first time. A good-natured, sceptical expression – a bear pestered by its cubs. It softened his features, making his face look unexpectedly gentle – as in the photograph, taken in that same courtyard, that was back at Quart's hotel. Quart thought of Spada, his boss at the IEA. The archbishop and Father Ferro had the same smile, like veteran gladiators. Quart wondered if his smile would ever become like theirs.

"Father," the duchess said after a glance at her daughter and a moment's thought, "this church is very important to my family. Not only because of its historical significance but also because, as Don Priamo says, whenever a church is demolished, a piece of heaven is removed. And I would hate to see the place I hope to end up in reduced in size." She drank some more Coca-Cola, half shutting her eyes with pleasure as the fizzing tickled her nose. "I'm putting my faith in our parish priest that he'll get me there before too long."

Father Ferro blew his nose. "You will get there, madam," he said, blowing his nose again. "You have my word." He put the handkerchief away and glared at Quart, as if defying him to question his ability to keep such a promise.

Cruz Bruner clapped her fan against her hand, delighted. "You see" she said to Quart. "That's the advantage of having a priest to tea six days a week… It gives one certain privileges." She looked gratefully at Father Ferro. The expression in her watery eyes was both serious and mocking.

The old priest shifted in his chair, made uneasy by Quart's silence. "You'd get there just the same without me," he said sullenly.

"Maybe, maybe not. But I know that if they don't let me in, you'll give them what for up there." The old lady considered the jet rosary beads lying next to a prayer book on the table covered with magazines and newspapers. She sighed. "At my age, I find that reassuring."

In the garden, beyond the open gate, blackbirds could be heard singing. A gentle chirrup that ended in two sharp trills. The duchess turned to listen. May was their mating season, she explained. They often perched on the wall of the convent next door and could be heard singing at the same time as the nuns. Her father the duke, Macarena's grandfather, had spent the last few years of his life recording the blackbirds' song. The tapes and records were still in the house somewhere. Through the recorded birdsong you could hear the sound of the duke's footsteps on the gravel paths.

"My father was an old-fashioned gentleman," continued the duchess. "He wouldn't have liked the way the world's changed." From the tilt of her head, it was obvious she didn't like it either. "In a book published before the Civil War, The Large Estates of Spain, my family is mentioned as being one of the wealthiest in Andalusia, though even then the wealth was only on paper. Money's in different hands now. Banks and financiers own the big country estates and surround them with electric fences. They have expensive cars, and they're buying up all the wineries in Jerez. Sharp people who've made their money overnight, as my son-in-law would like to do."

"Mother."

The duchess raised her hand. "Let me say what I have to say. Don Priamo never liked Pencho, but I did. And the fact that you're separated changes nothing." She fanned herself again, with unexpected vigour. "I admit that in this business over the church he's not behaving like a gentleman."

Macarena shrugged. "Pencho was never a gentleman," she said. She took a lump of sugar and sucked it thoughtfully. Quart watched her, until she suddenly looked up at him. "And he's never tried to pass himself off as one."

"No, of course not," said the old lady, suddenly sarcastic. "Your father, now he was a gentleman. A real Andalusian gentleman." Then she was lost in thought, touching the tiles around the fountain with her fingertips. The tiles, she explained to Quart, dated from the sixteenth century and had been laid throughout the house in strict accordance with the rules of heraldry. "An Andalusian gentleman," she repeated after a moment's silence. The line of lipstick on her thin, faded lips contorted – a bitter, private smile.