Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni stooped under the shade netting and began to pour water, gently, almost dribbling it, against the lower stem of each bean plant. Every drop of water was precious in Botswana, and one would have to be foolhardy to use a hose to splash water all over the place. It was even more effective, if one had the resources, to set up a drip feed system, in which the water would travel down from a central reservoir on a thin line of cotton thread which would dip down into the ground at the plant’s roots. That was the best water husbandry of all: tiny trickles of water delivered to the roots, minuscule drop by minuscule drop. Perhaps one day I shall do that, thought Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. Perhaps I shall do that when I am too old to fix cars anymore and have sold Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors. Then I shall be a farmer, as all my people have been before me. I shall go back to my lands, way out there on the edge of the Kalahari, and sit under a tree and watch my melons grow in the sun.

He bent down to examine one of the bean plants, which had become entangled in the string up which it grew. As he gently redirected the plant’s stem, there was a sudden noise behind him; a little thud, as of a stone hitting something, and then a dry, scrabbling noise, and he spun round immediately. A noise like that could easily be a snake; one had to be constantly on the watch for snakes, which might be lying anywhere and might suddenly rear up and strike. A cobra would be bad enough-and he had experienced several rather-too-close encounters with them-but what if it was a mamba, angered by a disturbance? Mambas were aggressive snakes which did not like people treading on their ground, and which would attack with real anger. A bite from a mamba was rarely survivable, as their poison travelled so quickly through the body and paralysed the lungs and the heart.

It was not a snake but a bird, which had fluttered down from the bough of a tree and had flown, at a strange angle, down against the shade netting. Now it had fallen to the ground and was beating its wings against the sand, raising a small cloud of dust. After a few struggling movements, it lay still, a hoopoe, with its gorgeous striped plumage and its tiny crown of black and white feathers sticking up like the headdress of some miniature chieftain.

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni reached down to the bird, which watched his approaching hand with a liquid stare, but which seemed unable to move any longer. Its breast rose under the feathers, almost imperceptibly, and then was still. He picked it up still warm but now limp, and he turned it over. On its other side, the tiny eye-a black speck like the pip of a papaw-was hanging out of its socket, and there was a red patch in the plumage where the bird had been struck by a stone.

“Oh,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, and then again, “oh.”

He laid the bird down on the ground and looked about him, out into the scrub bush.

“You skellums,” he shouted. “I saw this! I saw you kill this bird!”

Boys, he thought. It would be boys with their catapults, hiding in the bushes and killing birds, not to eat, of course, but just killing them. Killing doves or pigeons was one thing; they could be eaten, but nobody could eat a hoopoe, and who could possibly wish to kill such a friendly little bird? You simply did not kill hoopoes.

Of course it would be impossible to catch the boys in question; they would have run away by now, or they would be hiding in the bush laughing at him behind their hands. There was nothing to be done but to toss the little carcass away. Rats would find it, or maybe a snake, and make a meal of it. This little death would be a windfall for somebody.

WHEN MR. J.L.B. Matekoni went back to the house, discouraged by the hoopoe’s death, and by the condition of the beans, and by everything, he found Mma Ramotswe waiting for him at the kitchen door.

“Have you seen Puso?” she asked. “He was playing out in the yard. But now it is dinnertime and he has not come back. You may have heard me calling him.”

“I have not seen him,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “I have been out at the back…” He stopped.

“And?” said Mma Ramotswe. “Is he back there?”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni hesitated for a moment.

“I think he is,” he said gravely. “I think he is using a catapult out there.”

They both went out to the vegetable patch and peered into the bush on the other side of the fence.

“Puso,” called out Mma Ramotswe. “We know that you are hiding. You come out or I shall come and get you myself.”

They waited for a few moments. Then Mma Ramotswe called out again.

“Puso! You are there! We know you are there!”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni thought he saw a movement in the high grass. It was a good place for a boy to hide, but it would be easy enough to go and get him out if they had to.

“Puso!” shouted Mma Ramotswe. “You are there! Come out!”

“I am not here.” The boy’s voice was very clear. “I am not.”

“You are a rascal,” said Mma Ramotswe. “How can you say you are not there? Who is speaking if it is not you?”

There was a further silence, and then the branches of a bush parted and the small boy crawled out.

“He killed a hoopoe with his catapult,” whispered Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “I saw it.”

Mma Ramotswe drew in her breath as the boy approached her, his head down, looking steadfastly at the ground.

“Go to your room, Puso,” she said. “Go to your room and stay there until we call you.”

The boy looked up. His face was streaked with tears.

“I hate you,” he said. Then he turned to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “And I hate you, too.”

The words seemed to hang in the air between them, but the boy now dashed past the two astonished adults, running back towards the house, not looking back at Mma Ramotswe and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni as he ran.

NOTHING SEEMED to be going well for Mma Ramotswe. Firstly, there was that distressing evening with the children-Motholeli being bullied and the boy behaving in that troubling way, shooting a hoopoe and then remaining mute for the rest of the evening. There were matters still to be sorted out for Motholeli, of course, but at least she had cheered up after their talk; with the boy it had been different. He had just shut them out, refusing to eat, and it seemed that nothing they could say would make any difference. They had not attempted to punish him over the hoopoe, and one might have thought that he would be grateful for that, but he was not. Did he really hate them? And, if he did, why should he do so when all they had offered him was love and support? Was this how orphan children behaved? Mma Ramotswe knew that children who were damaged in their early years could be very difficult; and this boy, when all was said and done, had actually been buried alive as a baby. Something like that could leave a mark; indeed, it would have been surprising had it not. But why should he suddenly turn on them like that when he had seemed to be quite happy before? That was puzzling. She would have to go and see Mma Potokwani at the orphan farm and seek her advice. There was nothing that Mma Potokwani did not know about children and their behaviour.

But that was not all. There had been a development which could threaten the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency itself, unless something was done; and nothing, it seemed, could be done. It was Mma Makutsi who broke the news on the morning after the disturbing events at Zebra Drive.

“I have very bad news,” said Mma Makutsi when Mma Ramotswe arrived at the office. “I have been sitting here for the last hour, wanting to cry.”

Mma Ramotswe looked at her assistant. She was not sure if she could take more trauma after last night; she felt raw from her engagement with the children’s problems, and she had been looking forward to a quiet day. It would not matter if there were no clients that day; in fact, it would be better if there were no clients at all. It was difficult enough having one’s own problems to sort out, let alone having to attend to the problems of others.