“And the boy?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “What happened to the boy?”

“He went to college in Bloomington. As I did. He was a great football player. He taught high school, I think. Things went well for him.”

“I am pleased to hear that ending,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It would have been a very sad story otherwise.”

“There are plenty of sad stories, Mma Ramotswe.”

“Of course there are.” She pointed to the scattered cottages in which the children lived with their house-mothers. “Every one of those houses has sad stories in it.”

“I guess that’s right,” said Clovis Andersen.

“But Mma Potokwane tries to write a happy ending for them,” Mma Ramotswe went on. “That is what she does.”

She held Clovis Andersen’s gaze as she said this, and he knew immediately what she meant: this was not an idle enquiry they were about to embark upon—there was a great deal at stake here.

“I think we should go in,” he said softly. “Is that the office over there?”

“Yes. That is where she works.”

Mma Potokwane was briefly out of her office, her secretary explained, but she would be back soon; one of the house-mothers had sprained an ankle and she was attending to that. In the meantime they were welcome to sit down in the office, where it was cool.

They had talked in the van earlier about what they should do, and now Mma Ramotswe tackled the secretary. “Are you the secretary, Mma, to the board as well as to Mma Potokwane?”

The secretary nodded. “I do both, Mma. When the board has its meetings I am always there to bring papers and do things like that.”

Mma Ramotswe looked about the room, at the array of filing cabinets. “You keep the board papers here, Mma?”

The secretary confirmed that this was the case.

“So that means you have the tenders for the new hall?”

The secretary glanced in the direction of one of the filing cabinets. “They are all there,” she said.

“Could you show me something, Mma?”

The reply came quickly. “Certainly not, Mma. The board’s papers are confidential. They have that typed on the top of them. I cannot show them even to you, Mma Ramotswe. It would be improper.”

“Of course it would be,” said Mma Ramotswe hurriedly. “It would be improper. But it’s a pity, really.”

The secretary looked at her suspiciously. “Why, Mma?”

“I take it that you are fond of Mma Potokwane, Mma?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

“Of course I am, Mma. She is the best matron this place has ever had. She is the best boss I am ever likely to get.”

“So you’ll miss her?”

“Of course I’ll miss her, Mma.”

“And I can imagine how the children will miss her,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Oh, they’ll be so sad, those children. First they lose their parents, and then they lose Mma Potokwane. They will be very sad, I think.”