“A day or two early, Mma?” she asked. “When…”

“The day after tomorrow,” said Mma Ramotswe impulsively. She had a case to work on the next day, but after that she would be free. “We now have our boots, don’t we? Then we are ready. All you need to do, Mma, is to pack a small bag of clothes and we can go.”

Mma Makutsi closed her eyes. She felt a delicious anticipation. Maun, she thought. The day after tomorrow! And here, ladies and gentlemen, we have Mma Makutsi, Dip. Sec., Chief Detective at the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, photographed recently while working on an important investigation in the Delta. Mma Makutsi is wearing a pair of special safari boots purchased from a high-class retailer in Gaborone. The traditionally built lady at the back of the photograph is Mma Makutsi’s assistant and secretary, Precious Ramotswe…

She opened her eyes. Mma Ramotswe was looking at her with curiosity. She could not have read my mind, Mma Makutsi thought, dispelling a pang of guilt over the fantasy. Of course not…

But her shoes had known what she was thinking. Fat chance, Boss, they suddenly said. In your dreams!

THE CASE that Mma Ramotswe had to deal with before leaving for Maun was that of Mr. Kereleng. She had been putting it off because she was convinced that it was hopeless, but now that she had sorted out the Mateleke inquiry she felt that she had no excuse for ignoring this tricky Kereleng-Sephotho matter. And tackle it she did the following morning, when she went to see her old friend Joe Bosilong, an attorney who had acted for her in one or two disputes over unpaid bills. He had won these disputes not because of any great forensic skills on his part, but because Mma Ramotswe’s case was so strong. But she gave him the credit for this, calling him, to his evident amusement and pleasure, the finest attorney south of the Limpopo River.

“So it’s Mma Ramotswe,” he said heartily as she came into his waiting room in the modest office building near the Private Hospital. “Is this a business call or a social one? Both are equally welcome-from you.”

She greeted him warmly. “It is a call for advice. Not for me, you’ll understand, but for one of my clients.”

“Your friends are my friends,” said Mr. Bosilong. “Your clients are my clients. Or maybe not, but you know what I mean. Come in, Mma Ramotswe.”

He led her into the office beyond the waiting room. His desk, unusually for a lawyer, was devoid of papers. On the wall behind him, neatly shelved, was a set of the Botswana Law Reports and the Statutes of Botswana. He noticed her looking at them. “So many laws,” he said, shaking his head. “Our legislators sit there dreaming up so many laws. It’s difficult enough getting on top of them as a lawyer-imagine what it’s like for an ordinary person. How can an ordinary person know what the law is?”

“It is very hard,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I’m an ordinary person, and I can assure you, it’s very hard. Mind you, I think that most people know whether or not they’re doing wrong.”

“In some cases, perhaps. But there are lots of ways you can break the law without knowing that you’re doing so. And ignorance of the law is no excuse, as Professor Frimpong taught me at law school all those years ago.”

Mma Ramotswe nodded. “So I believe.” She knew that Mr. Bosilong liked to talk at great length about anything, and she would have to move the conversation on if she was to get the advice she wanted.

“Tell me, Rra,” she said. “If I buy a house and I put it in the name of another person, and I then change my mind, is there anything I can do?”

Mr. Bosilong frowned. “You’ve bought a house, have you, Mma Ramotswe? What about Zebra Drive?”

“Not me,” she said. “Remember, I told you that this question was for a client. I have a client, you see, who bought a house and put it in the name of-”

She was about to say “in the name of Violet Sephotho,” but the lawyer beat her to it. “Violet Sephotho.”

Mma Ramotswe’s eyes widened. Gaborone was a small town in many ways, and people talked. It was perhaps not all that surprising that he should have heard of this. “You have heard of this, Rra?”

Mr. Bosilong hesitated. “You put me in a very awkward position, Mma. I am not sure what to say. Indeed, I’m not sure if I should say anything at all.”

She looked at him quizzically. And then it dawned on her: he had acted for Violet Sephotho, or possibly for Mr. Kereleng. Again, this should not have surprised her. There were only so many lawyers in Gaborone, and only so many clients; the odds that he should have acted for either of them were small enough. Yet that gave rise to an immediate problem: as an attorney, he was bound by the rules of confidentiality, and he would therefore not be able to say anything about the matter.

“I do not want you to break a confidence, Rra,” she said. “I am a detective, and I understand professional confidentiality.”

The lawyer sighed. “Oh dear, Mma Ramotswe. This is very difficult. I have acted for this man, Kereleng. When he bought the house initially, it was in his name. Then he came to see me about some other problem he had-a problem with the manager of his bottle store-and he asked me about transferring the house to his fiancée. She is called Violet Sephotho, as you may know. I told him that there would be no problem about that. Then the fiancée came to see me and asked me to draw up the deed for him to sign. When I did that, I was acting for her, not for him. She was my client. That’s important, you know.”

Mma Ramotswe looked puzzled. “Why? What difference does it make?”

“Well,” said Mr. Bosilong, “she was my client, you see, and that meant I owed a duty to her. So when Mr. Kereleng came to see me later and said that he had changed his mind, I had to tell him that it was too late. He was not the client-she was. He asked me to give the deed back-it had not yet been sent to the land registry. I said I could not, as I had done that job for another client, Miss Sephotho.”

Mma Ramotswe was interested in one thing he had said. “You told me that the deed was not yet registered. Is that so?”

“Not yet,” he said. “I suppose I’ve been putting it off.” He paused, looking into Mma Ramotswe’s eyes. “Mma Ramotswe, can I trust you?”

“Of course you can, Rra.”

“No, I mean absolutely, completely trust you. One hundred per cent?”

“One hundred per cent, Rra. Anything you say to me will go no further.”

Mr. Bosilong looked about him, as if searching his office for eavesdroppers.

“What I am about to say must remain between us,” he said. “I think that this Miss Sephotho is dishonest. I think that she has prevailed on this man to give her this house pretending that she will marry him. But it is only a pretence.”

Mma Ramotswe laughed. “But I knew that all along, Rra. Everybody knows that-or just about everybody. Mr. Kereleng didn’t at first-now he does.”

Mr. Bosilong shook his head ruefully. “I am an honest man, Mma Ramotswe. I cannot abide wicked people.”

“None of us can,” she said.

“And it makes me very sad when I see a legal technicality allowing bad people to get away with it.”

“There is nothing worse than that,” she agreed, “because that means that not only does the wicked person get away with it, but people lose respect for the law of Botswana. That is not a good thing at all.”

Mr. Bosilong signalled that this was his feeling too. But then he said, “Of course, sometimes things go wrong in the law. Attorneys make mistakes. They file the wrong papers. They forget to do things.”

“Every one of us makes mistakes, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe. She was not sure exactly what he was going to propose, but she wanted to encourage him. “And sometimes,” she went on, “a mistake is for the best.” She hesitated. “In fact, sometimes it is best to make an intentional mistake…”