Quart raised both hands, powerless, not knowing what to say, his thoughts elsewhere. His mind worked like a clock moving backwards and forwards, establishing times and alibis. Twelve or fourteen hours, Navajo had said. In theory there were many imponderables, unknown people who might be implicated; but in the immediate vicinity the list of suspects was neither long nor difficult to draw up. Every one of them could be included on it, even Father Oscar – he could have murdered Bonafe before he left. Father Ferro too would have had plenty of time to kill Bonafe, lock the vestry door, and go to the pigeon loft, where he met Quart at eleven that night, before disappearing. And anyway, as Navajo had remarked with his policeman's logic, Father Ferro's disappearance put him at the head of the list. But Gris Marsala was also to be considered, moving around the church like a cat, with the main door locked and the vestry open until nine, and no one to back up her statement. As for Macarena Bruner, when Quart arrived at her house for dinner at nine, she was there with her mother. But the previous hour and a half put her too on the list of suspects. After all, she had been worried that Bonafe might try to blackmail her.

Furious with himself, Quart tried to maintain his concentration. The image of Macarena dispersed his thoughts, tangled the threads of logic that linked the church, the corpse, and the players. At that moment he would have given anything for a calm mind.

The examining magistrate had arrived. The policemen gathered round the confessional, ready to proceed with the removal of the corpse. Navajo talked quietly to the magistrate, glancing from time to time at Quart and Gris Marsala.

"You may have to answer more questions," Quart said to the nun. "From now on, I'd rather you did so in the presence of a lawyer. Until we find Father Ferro and Father Oscar, we have to be cautious. Do you agree?"

"Yes."

Quart wrote a name on a card and handed it to her. "This man is absolutely trustworthy. He specialises in canon and criminal law. His name is Arce, and he's worked for us before. I telephoned him from the archbishop's palace, and he'll be arriving from Madrid at midday. Tell him all you know and follow his instructions to the letter."

Gris Marsala stared at the name on the card. "You're not bringing a lawyer like this here just for me," she said, seeming more sad than frightened. As if her church had already fallen before her eyes.

"Of course not." Quart tried to reassure her with a smile. "It's for all of us. This is a very delicate matter, with civil justice intervening. It's best if we get expert advice."

She folded the card carefully and put it in the back pocket of her jeans. "Where's Don Priamo?" she asked again, her blue eyes reproachful, as if Quart were to blame for the priest's disappearance.

"I have no idea," he said quiedy.

"He's not the kind of person who runs away."

Quart looked at the confessional. The police had removed the blue canvas and were bringing out Bonafe's body. Navajo was still talking to the magistrate. "I know he's not," Quart said at last. "And that's precisely the problem."

It took him less than five minutes to get from Our Lady of the Tears to the Casa del Postigo. He usually didn't sweat, but that morning his black shirt was sticking to his back and shoulders, under his jacket, when he rang the bell. The maid answered, and as Quart was asking for Macarena, he caught sight of her in the courtyard talking to two police officers, a man and a woman. When she realised he was there, she came over to him. She was in jeans, a blue checked shirt, and the same sandals as the previous night. She wore no makeup. Her hair was loose and still slightly wet. She smelled of shampoo. "He didn't do it," she said.

The fragrance of lemon verbena and basil hung in the air, and the morning sun was already casting rectangles of light on the ferns and geraniums in the courtyard. It also put glints of honey in the woman's dark eyes.

"Where is he?" Quart asked.

Macarena stared at him gravely, tilting her head to one side. "I don't know," she said.

They were very far from the night, from the garden below the illuminated window of the pigeon loft, from the shadows of leaves over her face and moonlit shoulders. The ivory necklace didn't look the same against her freshly washed morning skin. There was no longer any mystery, no complicity, no smile. The weary Knight Templar looked around, disconcerted; he felt naked in the sunshine, his sword broken, his chain mail torn. Mortal like the rest of humanity, and as vulnerable and vulgar. Lost, as Macarena had so righdy said just before she worked her dark miracle on his body. Because it was written: She will destroy your heart and your will. The exquisite, innocent, destructive power of a woman always left her lover the lucidity to understand his defeat. Quart was left facing himself, deprived of alibis.

He glanced at his watch without seeing the time, touched his collar, tapped his jacket pocket where he kept his cards for notes, attempting to regain his composure with familiar gestures. Macarena waited patiently. Say something, he told himself. Something that has nothing to do with the garden, her skin, the moon.

"How is your mother?" he asked.

Macarena waved vaguely towards the gallery above. "Upstairs, resting," she said. "She doesn't know." "What's happening here?"

She shook her head. The ends of her hair left damp marks on her shirt. "I don't know." Her thoughts were on Father Fcrro, not Quart. "But Don Priamo would never do something like that."

"Not even for his church?"

"No. The police say that Bonafe died in the evening. You saw Don Priamo last night. Do you think he'd have come here calmly to look at the stars if he'd just killed a man?"

"But he's run away."

Macarena looked doubtful. "I'm not sure. And that's what worries me."

She looked down at the mosaics, lost in thought. Quart gazed at her face, the gentle lines beneath the open shirt. His fingers tingled as he remembered, with a deep sense of loss, the warm, dark path. In the light of day, Macarena was still absolutely beautiful. "The police have been here an hour and I've hardly had time to think," she said. "There's something that doesn't make sense… Imagine for a moment that Don Priamo had nothing to do with it. And that that's why he acted so normally last night."

"He didn't sleep at home last night," Quart countered. "And we assume that he locked the church with the corpse inside."

"I can't believe it." Macarena put a hand on his arm. "What if something happened to him too? Maybe he left here, and then… I don't know. Things can happen."

Quart pulled his arm away, but she didn't notice. Between them, water splashed in the tiled fountain. "You know something I don't," he said. "Where were you yesterday, before dinner?"

"With my mother." She seemed surprised by the question. "You saw us both here."

"Before that?"

"I went for a walk and looked around the shops…" She stopped suddenly, stunned. "Don't tell me you think I'm a suspect."

"What I think doesn't matter. It's the police I'm worried about."

She breathed out. She seemed more confused than angry. "The police are stupid," she muttered, "but not that stupid. At least I hope not."

It was starting to get very hot. Quart unbuttoned his jacket. Being here was his only advantage over Navajo. Maybe they'd already found Oscar Lobato and heard his version of events.

"Tomorrow's Thursday," Macarena said despondently, resting her elbows on the fountain parapet.

Quart understood now what had been worrying her since the police gave her the news: if there was no Mass tomorrow, Our Lady of the Tears was finished. The archbishop of Seville, the city council and the Cartujano Bank would pounce like wolves. "The church is the least of it now," he said. "If Father Ferro appears tomorrow, the chances are he'll be put in prison."