MMA POTOKWANE listened intently as Mma Ramotswe began to tell her of Mma Sebina and her search. Normally she would interrupt Mma Ramotswe as she spoke, not with any rude intent, but merely because she had thought of something that she imagined Mma Ramotswe would like to know and needed to speak about it before it went out of her head; with so much to deal with, constant demands from children and never-ending requests from housemothers, Mma Potokwane had a lot on her mind, and things could easily slip out of it. On this occasion, though, she simply listened, allowing Mma Ramotswe to give an account of her trip to Otse, her meeting with the woman who kept a chair in a tree, and the breakthrough conversation with Mma Mapoi.

At first Mma Potokwane said nothing when Mma Ramotswe finished. One of the young women who worked in the kitchen had brought in a pot of tea and a plate of cake, and now Mma Potokwane reached forward to pour them each a cup of tea. “We must not let the tea get cold,” she said, passing a cup to Mma Ramotswe. “There is nothing worse than being given cold tea. Do you know, Mma Ramotswe, I have heard that in America they even drink it with ice. Have you heard that?”

Mma Ramotswe nodded sadly. “I have, Mma. At first I could not believe it, then somebody told me that it was true. It is a very serious thing.” She paused, throwing a discreet glance at the untouched fruit cake.

Mma Potokwane understood. “We must not forget the fruit cake,” she said, slipping a slice onto a plate and passing it to her guest. “That is another thing I have heard. I have been told that some people these days have stopped eating fruit cake. Have you heard that?”

Mma Ramotswe popped half of the fruit cake into her mouth. It was very good. “No,” she mumbled. “I have not heard that rumour.”

“Not Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, of course,” Mma Potokwane continued. “He would never give up fruit cake, would he, Mma?”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. “I think that Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni would do anything for a piece of your fruit cake, Mma Potokwane.”

“That is good to hear,” said Mma Potokwane, “because we have a small mechanical problem at the moment with the automatic irrigation system for the vegetables. If you wouldn’t mind, Mma…”

“I shall mention it to him,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But I was wondering, Mma, what you made of what Mma Mapoi said to me. About those two children and their mother who became late in prison?”

Mma Potokwane reached for the teapot. “I remember them well,” she said. “It was shortly after I came here. I was deputy matron then. I only became matron five or six years later.”

“And the children?” Mma Ramotswe pressed. “What about those two children?”