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entered the room she saw that the curtain had been drawn back and that there was a woman sitting on a small folding stool beside his mat. When she heard the door open, the woman stood up and turned to face her.
    “I am the nurse from the Anglican hospice,” she said. “I have come to see our brother. My name is Sister Baleje.”
    The nurse had a pleasant smile, and Mma Makutsi took to her immediately.
    “You are kind to come and see him,” Mma Makutsi said. “I wrote that letter to you just to let you know that he was not well.”
    The nurse nodded. “That was the right thing to do. We can call in to see him from time to time. We can bring food if you need it. We can do something to help, even if it’s not a great deal. We have some drugs we can give him. They are not very strong, but they can help a bit.”
    Mma Makutsi thanked her, and looked down at her brother.
    “It is the coughing that troubles him,” she said. “That is the worst thing, I think.”
    “It is not easy,” said the nurse.
    The nurse sat down on her stool again and took the brother’s hand.
    “You must drink more water, Richard,” she said. “You must not let yourself get too thirsty.”
    He opened his eyes and looked up at her, but said nothing. He was not sure why she was here, but thought that she was a friend of his sister, perhaps, or a neighbour.
    The nurse looked at Mma Makutsi and gestured for her to sit on the floor beside them. Then, still holding his hand, she reached forward and gently touched his cheek.
    “Lord Jesus,” she said, “who helps us in our suffering. Look down on this poor man and have mercy on him. Make his days joyful. Make him happy for his good sister here, who looks after him in his illness. And bring him peace in his heart.”
    Mma Makutsi closed her eyes, and put her hand on the shoulder of the nurse, where it rested, as they sat in silence.

CHAPTER FOUR
    A VISIT TO DR MOFFAT
    A S MMA Makutsi sat at her brother’s side, Mma Ramotswe was driving her tiny white van up to the gate of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s house near the old Botswana Defence Force Club. She could see that he was in; the green truck which he inevitably drove—in spite of his having a rather better vehicle which he left parked at the garage—stood outside his front door, which he had left half open for the heat. She left the van outside, to save herself from getting in and out to open and shut the gate, and walked up to the house past the few scruffy plants which Mr J.L.B. Matekoni called his garden.
    “Ko! Ko!” she called at the door. “Are you there, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni?”
    A voice came from the living room. “I am here. I am in, Mma Ramotswe.”
    Mma Ramotswe walked in, noticing immediately how dusty and unpolished was the floor of the hall. Ever since Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s sullen and unpleasant maid, Florence, had been sent to prison for harbouring an unlicensed gun, the house had been allowed to get into an unkempt state. She had reminded Mr J.L.B. Matekoni on several occasions to engage a replacement maid, at least until they got married, and he had promised to do so. But he had never acted, and Mma Ramotswe had decided that she would simply have to bring her maid in one day and attempt a spring clean of the whole place.
    “Men will live in a very untidy way, if you let them,” she had remarked to a friend. “They cannot keep a house or a yard. They don’t know how to do it.”
    She made her way through the hall and into the living room. As she entered, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, who had been lying full length on his uncomfortable sofa, rose to his feet and tried to make himself look less dishevelled.
    “It is good to see you, Mma Ramotswe,” he said. “I have not seen you for several days.”
    “That is true,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Perhaps that is because you have been so busy.”
    “Yes,” he said, sitting down again, “I have been very busy. There is so much work to be done.”
    She said nothing, but watched him as he