Tebogo looked down modestly. “It is our job, Mma. We are kind to people because it is our job. Not just me-everybody here.”
For a few moments, Mma Ramotswe was silent as she weighed his remark. No, it was not true. They were professional in their dealings with their guests, and that meant they were courteous and attentive, but kindness was another matter-it required that there be something in the heart. She looked at Mighty; he had it too, she suspected-that quality of kindness that visitors to the country so often remarked upon.
“I think that you were kind to her, Rra,” she said quietly. “But I have not come to talk about that. I have come to tell you what has happened to that lady. She is late, I’m afraid to say.”
She watched. Again, she was sure that she was right: he was upset.
“I am very sorry to hear that, Mma. I’m sure that she was a nice lady.”
She knew that he meant it. If there was anything that she had learned in her years as a private detective, it was the ability to tell when somebody meant what they said.
“I believe she was, Rra,” she said. “And a generous one too.”
Mma Makutsi had been quiet until now, but this was her opportunity. “Generous to you,” she said.
Tebogo looked inquiringly at Mma Makutsi. “Oh?”
“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “She spoke to her lawyer before she died. Over in America. She spoke to him, and told him that she wanted to give you some money. And now that is why we are here. We have come to find you and tell you about this money.”
For a moment Tebogo simply stared at her. Then he shook his head. “I cannot believe this, Mma. It cannot be true.”
“It is,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Mma Grant has left you three thousand dollars. That is…”
“Almost twenty thousand pula,” interjected Mighty.
Tebogo shook his head again. Then he smiled. “That is… It is…”
“It is very good luck,” said Mighty.
“I am very grateful,” said Tebogo. He let out a low whistle. “Twenty thousand pula!”
“Be careful that you do not spend it all at once,” said Mma Makutsi.
Mma Ramotswe looked at her assistant. She had a tendency to bossiness, she thought, and she should have a word with her about it at some point. But it was difficult to broach the subject of a person’s failings, particularly if that person was Mma Makutsi, with her ever so slightly prickly nature. Perhaps her shoes would say something; Mma Makutsi had once, jokingly-and she must have been joking-told her that her shoes occasionally gave her advice. Well, perhaps they could tell her not to be so bossy. They must have witnessed it, after all-shoes see everything; there are no secrets we can keep from our shoes.
“I’m sure that Tebogo will be very careful,” said Mma Ramotswe, adding, “and I really don’t think we need to tell him how to look after his money.”
“I will put it in the bank,” said Tebogo. “And then I will spend it later.”
“That sounds very wise,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“There are school fees for my son,” he went on.
Mma Ramotswe nodded her approval. “Yes, that would be a good thing to spend it on.”
“And my mother is very old,” Tebogo continued.
“Then you can make her comfortable,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“And I can buy some cattle for my cattle post.”
Mma Ramotswe thought that a good idea too. “That too. School fees, mother, and cattle. All of these are very fine purposes, Rra.”
Tebogo looked thoughtful. “I have just remembered something,” he said. “I have a letter from a lady in America. I still have it. It may be that lady, that Mma Grant.”
Mighty explained that this was quite common. “People often write to us,” he said. “They write to thank us, or they send us a postcard to show where else they have been.”
“I keep all these things,” said Tebogo. “Would you like to see it? I can go and fetch it from my place. I think I know where it will be.”
Mma Ramotswe said that she would, and Tebogo walked off to the staff quarters to fetch the letter. A few minutes later he returned, clutching a large envelope. From this he drew out a typed letter to which was attached a couple of newspaper cuttings and a photograph.
“This is what she sent me,” he explained. “Those pages from the newspaper are about a man from her home town who was breeding ostriches. I had showed her some ostriches, and she thought I might be interested in that. And there is a photograph of me and her standing together outside the camp. I remember this lady. I had just forgotten that she was called Mma Grant.”
He was clearly exhilarated by the news that Mma Ramotswe had given him, and he spoke quickly, the excitement showing in his voice. Mma Ramotswe took the sheaf of papers from him, and looked at the press cuttings. She found it touching that a woman like Mrs. Grant, who lived so far from the world of this man, should have sent him things to read from her newspaper. But that was how people were: they reached out to one another, no matter what dividing chasms lay between them-chasms of geography, and nation, and language; in spite of all these, people could still look at others and see that we were all the same, at least in those things that mattered, those things of the spirit, of the heart-human things.
“Ostriches,” she muttered.
“Yes,” said Tebogo. “I have read the articles. It is very interesting. But I felt a bit sorry, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe looked up sharply. “Sorry for Mma Grant?”
He shook his head. “No, for the ostriches. They are so far away from Africa. They are living in a cold place. They must be very sad.”
“They do not know about any of that,” said Mma Makutsi firmly. “An ostrich that is born in another place does not know about Africa. And they do not have very big heads, Rra. So they do not know where they are.”
Tebogo gave Mma Makutsi a challenging look. “Animals and birds know exactly where they are,” he said reproachfully. “They know many things, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe folded up the ostrich articles and detached the photograph from the letter. “So this is…” She stopped. She had seen a photograph of Mrs. Grant in the obituary that the lawyer had sent her. The late Mrs. Grant was thin, even gaunt. This Mrs. Grant was by contrast traditionally built. The late Mrs. Grant had grey hair, cut short, and a prominent nose. This Mrs. Grant had blonde, shoulder-length hair and a very small nose. They were not the same person; she had absolutely no doubt about it.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN. MOST UNFORTUNATE
IT WAS FORTUNATE that Mma Makutsi chose this moment of dismaying discovery to engage Tebogo in conversation about the antics of the monkey in the tree above them. The monkey, which had been joined by three or four of its troop, was chattering excitedly, competing with its fellows over some morsel it had found in the higher branches. Leaving her assistant, Mma Ramotswe took Mighty to one side.
“There is something wrong,” she whispered.
Mighty drew in his breath. “You don’t think he deserves the money?”
“No. It’s not that. It’s the wrong person.”
Mighty looked puzzled. Glancing over his shoulder to check that they could not be overheard by Tebogo, he assured her that there was no question but that Tebogo had looked after Mrs. Grant. “It is in the book,” he said. “And he remembers her.” He gestured to the letter. “That letter is signed by Mrs. Grant, isn’t it? Yes, look at it. That says Grant.”
Mma Ramotswe frowned. “I know,” she whispered. “I know that. But that lady in the picture is not Mrs. Grant. I have her photograph with my things in the room. I’ll show you, if you like. That is not the lady.”
Mighty made a gesture of helplessness. “I don’t see how this can be,” he said.
Mma Ramotswe fiddled anxiously with the papers. “I don’t know what to do,” she said. “I cannot pay the money to the wrong man. I have my duty to Mrs. Grant’s lawyer, a certain Mr. Maxwell. He is my client, Rra. Can you see that?”