Her visitor was a woman somewhere in her late thirties, about Mma Ramotswe’s own age, even slightly younger. She was dressed well but not flashily, and her clothing, together with the new car outside, told Mma Ramotswe all that she needed to know about her economic circumstances. This woman, she imagined, was a well-paid senior civil servant, or even a businesswoman.

“I have no appointment, Mma,” said the woman, “but I hoped that you would be able to see me anyway.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. “I am always happy to see people, Mma. An appointment is not necessary. I am happy to talk at any time,” adding: “within reason.”

The woman accepted Mma Ramotswe’s invitation to sit down. She had not given her name, although she had used the correct greeting; doubtless, the name would emerge later.

“I must be truthful, Mma,” she said. “I have no confidence in private detectives. I must tell you that.”

Mma Ramotswe raised an eyebrow. If she had no confidence in private detectives, then why would she come to the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, the name of which was sufficiently self-explanatory, she would have thought.

“I am sorry to hear that, Mma,” she said. “Maybe you would tell me why.”

The woman now looked slightly apologetic. “Not that I mean to be rude, Mma. It’s just that I have had a very unpleasant experience with a detective agency. That is why I feel as I do.”

Mma Ramotswe nodded. “The Satisfaction Guranteed Agency? Mr. Buthele-”

She did not have the time to finish. “Yes,” said the woman. “That man! How he thinks that he can call himself a private detective, I do not know.”

Mma Ramotswe was intrigued. She wished that Mma Makutsi had been present, as it would have been good to share with her whatever was about to be disclosed. And it was going to be choice, she thought. But before she allowed her visitor to explain, the idea occurred to her that she should make an offer, on behalf of the entire profession. Yes, it was just the right thing to do in the circumstances.

“Let me say one thing, Mma,” she said, raising her hand. “If you have suffered at the hands of a fellow member of my profession-and I must say that I am not surprised to hear this-then the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency will undertake to complete the enquiry which Mr. Buthe… which that man has obviously not done properly. That is my offer.”

The woman was clearly impressed. “You are very good, Mma. I did not come expecting that, but I am happy to accept your offer. I can tell that things are different in this place.”

“They are,” said Mma Ramotswe quietly. “We do not make claims that we cannot live up to. We are not like that.”

“Good,” said the woman. “Now, let me tell you what happened.”

SHE HAD gone to see Mr. Buthelezi after seeing his advertisement in the newspaper. He had been very polite to her, although she had found his manner rather overwhelming.

“But I thought that this might be something to do with the name,” she said, glancing at Mma Ramotswe, who nodded, almost imperceptibly. One had to be careful about what one said, but people understood, and they knew what Zulu people could be like. Perhaps the word was… well, pushy or, if one were a bit more charitable, self-confident. Not that one liked to make such remarks openly, of course. Mr. Buthelezi said that he was a Motswana and not a Zulu, but you could not ignore paternal ancestry that easily, especially if you were a man. It stood to reason, Mma Ramotswe thought, that boys took more after their father than their mother; could people seriously doubt that? Some did, apparently, but they were obviously wrong.

The woman went on to explain why she had been to see Mr. Buthelezi in the first place.

“I live in Mochudi,” she said, “although I am originally from Francistown. I am a physiotherapist at the hospital there. I work with people who have broken limbs or who have been very ill and need help in getting back on their feet. That is one of the things we do, but there are others. It is a very good job.”

“And very important,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You must be proud to be a physiotherapist, Mma.”

The woman nodded. “I am. Anyway, I live up there because that is where the job is. I also have four children, and they are happy at the school there. The only problem is that my husband has a job in town here and he did not like driving in from Mochudi every morning and back again. We put our savings into a small flat. I get my house in Mochudi with the job, so this seemed like a good thing to do.”

It was at this point that Mma Ramotswe realised what was coming. Ever since she had opened the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, she had received a regular stream of requests to deal with errant husbands, or husbands suspected of being errant. These wifely fears were usually well founded, and Mma Ramotswe had been obliged to be the bearer of news of infidelity rather more often than she might have wished. But that was part of the job, and she did it with dignity and compassion. She was sure that this was what her new client was about to disclose; husbands working away from home rarely behaved themselves, although some, a small number, did.

Mma Ramotswe was right. The woman now described her fears about her husband and how she was sure that he was seeing somebody else.

“I usually telephone him in the evenings,” she said. “We talk about things that have happened during the day, and the children also speak to him. It is expensive, but it is important for the children to talk to their daddy. But now he is never in when I call. He says that this is because he is now enjoying walking, and he goes for a lot of walks, but that is nonsense. I can tell that this is a lie.”

“It sounds like it,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Some men cannot lie very well.”

The woman had consulted Mr. Buthelezi about her concerns, and he had promised to look into the matter, telling her to get back in touch with him after a day or so. He said that he would follow the husband and let her know what he was up to.

“And did he?” asked Mma Ramotswe. She was eager to hear how her rival operated.

“He says that he did,” said the woman. “But I do not believe him. He says that he followed him and that he is going to church. That is just ridiculous. My husband does not go to church. I have tried and tried to make him go, but he is lazy about it. And when he came home last weekend, I said to him on Sunday: ‘Let’s go to church.’ And he said that he did not want to go. Now, if he had become a great churchgoer, then surely he would want to go on a Sunday. But he did not. That proves it, in my mind.”

Mma Ramotswe had to agree.

“But there is something more,” said the woman. “I had paid a very large fee in advance, and when I said that I thought I should get some of it back, Mr. Buthe… that man just refused. He said that the money was his now. So I came to you.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. “I will do my best. I will see whether this churchgoing is true, and, if it isn’t-and I agree with you that it does not sound likely-then I shall find out what he really is doing, and I shall tell you all about it.”

They discussed one or two further details, including the name and address of the husband, and the address of the place where he worked.

“I have brought you a photograph, too,” the woman said. “It will help you to recognize him.”

She passed over a black-and-white photograph of a man looking into the camera. Mma Ramotswe glanced at it and saw a neatly attired man with an engaging smile, a carefully tended centre parting, and a moustache. She had never seen him before, but he would be easily picked out from a crowd.

“This will be very useful, Mma,” she said. “When clients do not provide photographs, our work can be more difficult.”

Mma Selelipeng rose to her feet.

“I am very cross with him,” she said. “But I know that once I find this lady who is trying to steal my husband, I shall be able to deal with her. I shall teach her a lesson.”