“I said you will speak only when I question you,” the priest said. “Show me the letters.”

The room was small, but very comfortable. It was evident that Gonzalo Jurado liked his luxuries. Two couches faced an empty fireplace above which a gilt-framed mirror hung. There were rugs on the floor. Three paintings hung on the wall opposite the window, all showing naked women. A bureau stood under the window that looked onto the street and the frightened man unlocked one of its drawers and took out a bundle of letters tied with black string. He put them on the bureau and stepped back.

Father Montseny cut the string and spread the letters on the bureau’s leather top. “Is this all of them?”

“All fifteen,” Jurado said.

“And the whore?” Father Montseny asked. “She has some still?”

Jurado hesitated, then saw the knife blade reflect candlelight. “She has six.”

“She kept them?”

“Yes, señor.”

“Why?”

Jurado shrugged. “Fifteen are enough? Maybe she can sell the others later? Perhaps she is still fond of the man? Who knows? Who understands women? But…” He had been about to ask a question, then feared being hit for speaking out of turn.

“Go on,” Father Montseny said, picking out a letter at random.

“How do you know about the letters? I told no one except the English.”

“Your whore made confession,” Father Montseny said.

“Caterina! She went to confession?”

“Once a year, she told me,” Father Montseny said, scanning the letter, “always on her patron saint’s name day. She came to the cathedral, told God about her many sins, and I granted her absolution on his behalf. How much do you want for the letters?”