“We went to an agent. He showed us a house that was very bad-it had no bath, and there was a big stain on the kitchen floor. He said that he could not see this stain, but it was certainly there, as if a cow had been slaughtered right there. The next house, though, was better, and we both liked it. It was for sale at a very good price because the owner had gone to live in Francistown and needed to get rid of it quickly. I managed to knock another ten thousand pula off the price, and that was it. I had a house.

“This lady was very pleased. She was making me feel very proud and happy and when she said, ‘It would be safer to put the house in my name,’ I did not bother to ask why. I had read that this is what people sometimes did-they put the house in their wife’s name so that if the bank came chasing after them they would not be able to take the house away. I went to see an attorney and we had everything fixed up. We were very pleased. ‘We can have many children now,’ said this lady, ‘because we have somewhere to put them all.’

“I was such a happy man, Mma. I walked on my toes and my head was held high-like this. I started to talk to my friend about wedding dates. She said, ‘All in good time. There will be plenty of time for these details once we have moved in and have started to be happy in our new house.’

“Oh, Mma, I can see that you can tell what is coming. And you are right. You are very right. We stayed in this house for two months, and then she invited her mother to come and stay with her. That was bad enough, but then she invited two aunts to live with us as well. I said, ‘Where are we going to put all the children, with all these aunties about the place talking all day and making a big noise?’ She said, ‘They are my aunties, and a man who cannot accept the aunties of his wife had better not get married after all.’ That was when I realised that she had never wanted to marry me, that she did not even like me, and that the whole thing was a trick to get the house out of me.

“I shouted at her and I threatened to call the police. She said, ‘And what crime will you report to the police? Will you tell them that you have changed your mind about a present you gave to a lady? They will say, What crime is that, Rra? You tell us.’

“I went to see the attorney I had used to buy the house. He said to me that as far as he could make out, I had given the house to this lady and that there was nothing I could do about it. So I went back to the place I was staying in before-the house of an uncle of mine, who had allowed me to stay there as a lodger. Now I had no money left-just my salary. The manager of the bottle store had stolen most of my inheritance and this lady had taken what was left. I was very sad. I need to sell the house, you see, as I have been offered the chance to buy a small agricultural laboratory-it is my big chance. Then somebody said to me, ‘You should go and see this Mma Ramotswe of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. If there is one person in Botswana who can help you, then it is her.’ That is what they said, Mma, and that is why I am here.”

Mr. Kereleng stopped. His hands folded in his lap, he looked down at the floor. Mma Ramotswe watched him; he was utterly dejected. She wanted to reach out and take his hand, but she could not do that with every client who came with a story of misfortune. She wanted to cry for him, but she could not do that either. There were not enough tears to shed for every story she heard of human foolishness and the unhappiness it brought in its wake.

So she simply said, “I am very sorry to hear this story, Rra. I am truly sorry.”

“I am sorry too,” said Mr. Polopetsi from the other desk. “It is sad to hear that there are such wicked women in Botswana.”

Mma Ramotswe cleared her throat. “I am not sure what I can do for you, Rra. I shall have to think about what you have told me and see if I can come up with a suggestion. But it sounds as if the lawyer was right-you have given something away, and it is usually impossible to get a gift back once it has been made.”

Mr. Kereleng sighed. “That is what everybody says, Mma. I thought that maybe you…”

“I shall see if I can think of something,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It’s just that sometimes I have to warn people right at the beginning that their case sounds very difficult, and that it may not be possible to help them. That is all.”

“I understand,” said Mr. Kereleng, his voice filled with defeat. “Thank you, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe moved the papers on her desk. She picked up a pencil. “I need a bit of information,” she said, sounding more businesslike. “You should give me the name of this lady and the address of the house.”

Mr. Kereleng looked up. He was weary, with the look of one who knows that his case is no case. “She is called Violet,” he said. “Violet Sephotho.”

MMA RAMOTSWE was as capable as anyone else of containing herself, but there were some situations-and this was one of them-where nobody could be expected to resist the urge to speak about something. After the departure of the unfortunate Mr. Kereleng, she and Mr. Polopetsi sat for almost half an hour discussing this latest story of Violet Sephotho’s perfidious behaviour. Both were quite shocked; they knew of Violet’s treacherous fiancé-stealing plans; they knew of her utter ruthlessness when it came to any men, fiancés or others; but now she was revealed as a downright thief and trickster, and that was something new.

It was all very well talking to Mr. Polopetsi about it. He knew all about Violet and disapproved of her strongly, but talking to a man about something like this, although satisfying, was not quite as good as a discussion with another woman, and with Mma Makutsi in particular. She had been Violet’s victim on more than one occasion, and would naturally be most interested to hear all about this new instance of her rival’s wickedness.

Mma Ramotswe had not intended to bother her assistant during her compassionate leave, but by four o’clock that afternoon she could no longer bear to leave the news unconveyed.

“I am going to check up on Mma Makutsi,” she announced to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni in the garage workshop. “I am closing the agency for the day.”

Charlie, who was leaning against the side of a car wiping a car part with an oily rag, looked up.

“Are you going to check up that she is not having a party?” he asked. “You know her, Mma. Compassionate leave? Passionate leave!”

“Do not say such things,” snapped Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.

“That was not very kind, Charlie,” said Mma Ramotswe.

Charlie looked wounded. “I was only joking, Mma! Just a joke!”

“Can you see Mma Ramotswe or me laughing?” asked Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “Are we laughing at your joke?” He turned to Mma Ramotswe. “Tell her that I hope that Phuti is doing well and will be back on his feet soon.”

“He has only got one foot now,” muttered Charlie.

“What was that, Charlie?” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “Did you say something?”

“Charlie is only trying to be helpful,” said Mma Ramotswe, giving the apprentice a sideways look. “And remember this, Charlie: there but for the grace of God go you. Remember that.”

She got into her van-the new blue van that drove so smoothly-and made her way over to Mma Makutsi’s house. It was possible that she was at the hospital, she thought, but if she had been there in the morning-as she said she would be-then she might be home by now. And turning into Mma Makutsi’s street, a street of modest houses occupied, she imagined, by people for whom reaching even this level of prosperity and comfort had been a battle, she pictured Mma Makutsi’s reaction to this piece of news about Violet. It was an odd thing, thought Mma Ramotswe, that we take such pleasure in hearing news of some piece of bad behaviour on the part of one of whom we have come to disapprove. Such news should sadden us, as any news of human failings should do, but it tended to do the opposite. Why? Because it confirmed the view we had of such people, and laid to rest doubts about our judgement. So, you see, I was right about her!