Now he knew what her grace had meant, and he wanted to say something about that, to thank her for her mercy, but he could not talk. He expressed his relief in tears, which he mopped at, embarrassed, with a handkerchief that she supplied, wordlessly. There was no point in telling somebody not to cry, she had always thought; indeed there were times when you should do exactly the opposite, when you should urge people to cry, to start the healing that sometimes only tears can bring. But if there was a place for tears of relief, there might even be a place for tears of pride—for the people who worked in that hospital, who looked after others, who took risks themselves of infection, of disease—from an accidental cut, a needle injury incurred at work; there were many tears of pride to be shed for them, for their bravery. And one of them, she thought, was Dr Cronje.

THE NEXT DAY, Mma Ramotswe dictated a report for Tati Monyena’s superiors, which Mma Makutsi took down in shorthand, ending each sentence with a flourish of her pencil, as if to express satisfaction at the outcome. She had told her assistant what had happened at the hospital, and Mma Makutsi had listened, open-mouthed. “Such a simple explanation,” she said. “And nobody thought of it until you did, Mma Ramotswe.”

“It was just something I saw,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I did not do anything very special.”

“You are always very modest,” said Mma Makutsi. “You never take any credit for these things. Never.”

Mma Ramotswe was embarrassed by praise, and so she suggested that they continue with the report, which ended with the conclusion that no further action was required in respect of incidents in which nobody was to blame.

“But is that true?” asked Mma Makutsi.

“Yes, it is true,” said Mma Ramotswe, adding, “No blame can be laid at that woman’s door. In fact, she deserves praise, not blame, for her work. She is a good worker.”

She looked at Mma Makutsi with a look that she rarely used, but which was unambiguously one which closed a matter entirely.

“Well,” said Mma Makutsi, “I suppose you’re right.”

“I am,” said Mma Ramotswe.

The report was finished, typed by Mma Makutsi—in an error-free performance, as one might expect of such a graduate of the Botswana Secretarial College. Then it was time for tea, as it so often was.

“You told that woman, Teenie, about the key to the supplies?” said Mma Ramotswe. “I wonder how that went. It’s a test of Mma Potokwane’s advice, I suppose.”

Mma Makutsi laughed. “Oh, Mma, I forgot to tell you. She telephoned me. She did as I suggested and put that man in charge of all the supplies. The next day, everything was gone. The whole lot. And he had gone too.”