"I told you, didn't I, that this business wouldn't be easy to resolve," said His Grace.
Quart leaned back in his armchair. He would have preferred to deprive the archbishop of this opportunity for sarcastic remarks and smiles wreathed in pipe smoke; but form required that he pay his respects before leaving. "I would remind Your Grace," he said, "that I didn't come here to resolve anything. I came simply to inform Rome of the situation. And that's exactly what I will do now."
Corvo was delighted. "You never learned who Vespers was," he said.
Quart glanced at his watch. "No. But Vespers is not really the problem. The hacker getting through to the Pope is a trivial matter; they'll find out who he is sooner or later. The important thing is Father Ferro and Our Lady of the Tears. With my report, whatever decision is made will be made with full knowledge of the situation."
The yellow stone in the archbishop's ring glinted as he raised his hand. "Don't give me your Jesuitical waffle, Father Quart. You've failed." The pipe smoke could not hide his glee. "Vespers has made fun of both you and Rome."
"Neither I nor Rome would have intervened," Quart said coldly, "had Your Grace nipped things in the bud. Father Ferro and Our Lady of the Tears are in your diocese. And you know the saying: straying sheep, shepherd asleep."
Corvo clenched his teeth over his pipe, indignant. "Listen, Quart," he said, his voice hard. "The only straying sheep here is you. Do you take me for a fool? I know about your little visits to the Casa del Postigo. And all the rest of it, the walks and the dinners."
His Grace, whose talents in the pulpit were well appreciated by the diocese, proceeded to vent all his scorn and spleen in a harsh homily that lasted several minutes. His main point was that the IEA agent had allowed himself to be taken in by the priest of Our Lady of the Tears and his own personal pressure group made up of nuns, aristocrats and devout old ladies. Quart had lost his sense of perspective and betrayed his mission in Seville. And the daughter of the duchess of El Nuevo Extremo – who was still, by the way, Gavira's wife – had played no small part in the seduction.
Quart listened impassively to the tirade but stiffened at this last remark. "I'd be most grateful if Your Grace would put any allegations concerning this last matter in writing."
"I will indeed." Corvo was delighted to have touched a raw nerve at last. "I'll send it to your bosses in the Vatican. To the nuncio. To all and sundry. I'll do so by letter, by telephone, by fax, and to the accompaniment of a guitar." He took the pipe from his mouth and leered. You'll lose your reputation just as I lost my secretary."
That was that. Quart folded his napkin, dropped it on the tray and stood up. "If there's nothing more, Your Grace…"
"Nothing more." The archbishop looked at him mockingly. "My son." He remained seated, regarding his own hand, wondering whether to deal a final blow and require that Quart kiss his ring. But at that moment the telephone rang, so he simply dismissed the priest with a wave and went to answer it.
Quart buttoned his jacket and went out into the corridor. His steps echoed beneath the painted ceiling of the Gallery of the Prelates, and then on the marble steps of the main staircase. Through the windows he could see the courtyard where the prison La Parra once stood, in which the bishops of Seville placed unruly priests. A few centuries earlier, Quart thought, Father Ferro, and maybe Quart himself, would have ended up in there, while Monsignor Corvo sent his version of events to Rome by the slowest means possible. Quart was on the bottom flight of steps, reflecting on the advantages of modern technology, when he heard someone call his name. He stopped and turned. It was the archbishop himself, and no longer looking so pleased.
"If you could come back up, Father Quart. There's something we need to discuss."
Quart retraced his steps, intrigued. As he mounted the steps, he noticed that His Grace was extremely pale. "You can't leave," Monsignor Corvo said when Quart came level with him. "There's been another unfortunate incident at the church."
He made his way past the cement mixer and two police cars. Our Lady of the Tears was thronging with policemen. He counted at least twelve – one at the door, the others inside taking photographs, lifting fingerprints, and searching the floor, pews and scaffolding for clues. The church echoed with their whispered conversations.
Gris Marsala sat alone on the steps of the high altar. Quart walked towards her up the central aisle. Simeon Navajo came to meet him halfway. As usual, the deputy superintendent had his hair in a ponytail and was wearing his round glasses and a loud shirt. The leather bag -with the.357 magnum inside, Quart assumed – was slung over his shoulder. It struck Quart that Navajo looked very out of place in the church. They shook hands. Navajo was pleased to see him.
"This makes three, Padre," he said jovially. He leaned casually against a pew, and Quart, peering past him, saw a pair of feet sticking out of the confessional.
He approached without a word, closely followed by Navajo. The door of the confessional was open. Quart thought the position of the feet strange. He could sec crumpled beige trouser legs. The rest of the body was covered by a piece of blue canvas, although a yellowish, waxen hand was visible, palm up. A wound ran from wrist to index ringer.
"Strange place to die, isn't it?" the policeman remarked. "Who is it?" asked Quart hoarsely.
The question was unnecessary. He recognised the shoes, the beige trousers, the small flabby hand.
Navajo stroked his moustache. "The man's name is Honorato Bonafe. He's a journalist. Was. He was well known around Seville."
Quart nodded.
"You knew him, didn't you? I thought so. People tell me he's been rooting around here these last few days. Do you want to take a look at him, Padre?"
Navajo reached into the confessional, his ponytail shaking like the tail of a diligent squirrel. He lifted the canvas that covered the body. Bonafe was very still and very yellow, slumped on a corner of the wooden seat inside the confessional, his chin sunk into thick folds. There was a big bruise on the left side of his face, and his eyes were closed. He looked peaceful, or possibly tired. Blood had run from his nose and mouth, spreading out over his neck and shirt. It was dried.
"The forensic pathologist has just looked him over," Navajo said, pointing to a young man who was sitting in a pew making notes. "He says he died from massive internal injuries. A blow, maybe, or a fall. What we don't know is how he ended up in the confessional."
Out of duty, overcoming the revulsion he felt for the man while he was alive, Quart muttered a brief prayer and made the sign of the Cross.
Navajo watched with interest. "I wouldn't bother if I were you, Padre. He's been dead quite a while. So wherever he was going" -with his hands he imitated two flapping wings – "he'll be there by now."
"What was the time of death?"
"We don't know yet. But at a guess, our expert says twelve or fourteen hours ago."
A couple of policemen up on the scaffolding by the Virgin were having an animated conversation, and their voices rang in the vault.
Navajo told them to keep it down. They obeyed, embarrassed. Quart saw that Gris Marsala was still on the altar steps. She was watching him. For the first time, she appeared fragile. As Navajo covered Bonafe again, he told Quart that the nun had found the body early that morning. "I'd like to talk to her," said Quart.
"Of course, Padre,'' Navajo said with an understanding smile. "But if you don't mind, before you do, I'd like you to tell me briefly how you knew the deceased. So we don't get the statements mixed up." He looked at Quart over his glasses.