The boy shivered. He looked up at Mr. Moeti again and then lowered his gaze to the ground. "I am sure, Mma. Can I go now?"

She squeezed his hand. "Of course you can. Goodbye, Mpho, go siame. go siame." They continued on their way.

"That's an odd little boy," Mr. Moeti remarked, smiling. "He stands there by the donkeys half the time, doing nothing, or just playing with stones he picks up."

"He's a child," said Mma Ramotswe. "Children should be allowed to spend their time doing things like that."

"He has cattle to watch. That's what he's paid to do."

She did not reply. The child's fear had been so obvious, and she was surprised that Mr. Moeti had not felt obliged to explain it away. Did he imagine she had not noticed it? And the cause of the child's fear was equally apparent: the herd boy was frightened of Mr. Moeti. He had seen something-of course he had-but he knew that he was not supposed to talk about it. She could find out what the child knew, if she really wanted to; if she had the chance to speak to the child by himself, then it would not be difficult to encourage him to speak. All you had to say to a child was that you knew what the secret was, and it would all come tumbling out. No child could keep a secret for long; they claimed to, but it was usually beyond them.

But of course it was not that simple. If she managed to persuade the child to speak, then he would be even more terrified, knowing that Mr. Moeti might find out. And yet, if the boy had witnessed the incident, he would be able to identify the perpetrator. And if he could do that, then why would Mr. Moeti have an interest in concealing the fact? It did not make sense at all, unless, of course, the child had seen something else altogether-some incident that explained the attack. Perhaps Mr. Moeti had done something to somebody else that had then resulted in the attack on his cattle, and perhaps the child had seen whatever it was that the farmer had done. Or-and this was also a possibility, she had to admit-perhaps the herd boy was simply frightened of Mr. Moeti in general and really had seen nothing. What was it that Clovis Andersen said in The Principles of Private Detection The Principles of Private Detection? It was in the chapter on establishing facts-a very important section in the scheme of the Andersen opus. Do not forget, Do not forget, wrote the distinguished authority, wrote the distinguished authority, that although a possible explanation may seem likely, there may be an entirely different cause operating in the background. If Mr. Green votes for Mr. Brown, you may think that is because Mr. Green approves of Mr. Brown's politics, but the real reason may be because Mr. Brown is Mr. Green's brother-in-law! that although a possible explanation may seem likely, there may be an entirely different cause operating in the background. If Mr. Green votes for Mr. Brown, you may think that is because Mr. Green approves of Mr. Brown's politics, but the real reason may be because Mr. Brown is Mr. Green's brother-in-law!

Mma Ramotswe had been intrigued by this pa.s.sage, and had read it out loud to Mma Makutsi one morning when business had been slack. Mma Makutsi had listened intently before asking Mma Ramotswe to repeat it. Then she had asked, "Who is this Mr. Green?"

"He is Mr. Brown's brother-in-law," replied Mma Ramotswe. "I do not think they really exist."

"Oh, I know that," said Mma Makutsi. "But I am asking because there may be another reason altogether. What if Mr. Brown has told Mr. Green that unless he votes for him he will cut off his nose? What then? That is a possible explanation too."

Mma Ramotswe gave this some thought before replying. "A good point, Mma Makutsi. And it shows that Mr. Andersen is correct. There may be even more explanations than those you think you have. That is very true."

It had been a slightly odd conversation-many conversations with Mma Makutsi could take a surprising turn-but it seemed helpful to remember it now. There could be any number of reasons for the boy's fear of Mr. Moeti and none of them might have anything to do with the cattle incident.

Mr. Moeti now stopped and pointed to a patch of gra.s.s at the side of the path. "This is where the last bullock was found," he said. "He was a very fine beast. Strong. White patches on his head."

Mma Ramotswe looked about her. They were, she thought, in a place best described as nowhere, surrounded by thin acacia scrub that stretched out to a small outcrop of hills to the south. Through the trees, though, she could just make out a fence that ran die-straight through the bush. She pointed at this.

"The border of my farm," said Mr. Moeti. "My neighbour is on that side-I am on this."

"And who is he?" asked Mma Ramotswe.

Mr. Moeti did not appear to be particularly interested. "He is just a man," he said. "He has a business down in Lobatse. He comes here at weekends."

She nodded. This was not at all unusual. The ambition of any successful businessman in Botswana was to own land, and cattle, of course. Wealth in the bank was one thing; wealth in the shape of cattle was quite another, and for many, much more desirable.

She sighed. "It is very sad, what happened to your cattle. Very sad. People can be so cruel to animals. They do not think of their suffering, do they? Imagine how painful it must be to have your tendons cut and you just lie there and..."

She looked at him as she spoke, and saw that his expression remained impa.s.sive. That was interesting, she noted. Most people, when reminded of pain, reacted in some way. They winced or gritted their teeth, or simply looked distressed. But Mr. Moeti did none of these.

"Not good," he said.

"No. Not good, Rra."

He gestured to the patch of gra.s.s. "Should we look around?"

She saw no point to doing this, but having gone out there she thought that she should at least look; not that there was anything to see, really, other than a small patch of ground on which something cruel had been done. There were numerous such small patches of ground throughout the world, she thought, and Africa, her beloved Africa, had many of them.

She looked up at the sky. That was the real witness to human cruelty, to all our manifold sorrows-the sky.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a grunt from Mr. Moeti. It was a rather odd sound, and she wondered for a moment whether he was in pain; it was that sort of sound, the oh oh that escapes our lips when a sudden awkward movement sends an electric shock of pain from the back. What if Mr. Moeti were to have a heart attack out here? Would she have to leave him lying on the ground-on the very gra.s.s on which the bullock had lain in the embrace of its own pain-and run back along the path to the house? And what would happen then? How long would it be before a doctor could be summoned or an ambulance brought out from Gaborone? that escapes our lips when a sudden awkward movement sends an electric shock of pain from the back. What if Mr. Moeti were to have a heart attack out here? Would she have to leave him lying on the ground-on the very gra.s.s on which the bullock had lain in the embrace of its own pain-and run back along the path to the house? And what would happen then? How long would it be before a doctor could be summoned or an ambulance brought out from Gaborone?

"Are you all right, Rra?"

He muttered something inaudible.

"Rra?"

"Come over here, Mma Ramotswe. Come over here."

He was bending over, looking at something on the ground. As she approached, he pointed, the gold band of his wrist.w.a.tch glinting in the sun as he did so.

"You see that?" he said. "I don't want to touch it before you see it. Look."

She peered down at the ground. There was a small, silver-coloured object, half covered by a dried leaf that had blown across it. She went down on her knees; the ground beneath the meagre covering of vegetation was hard and stony. She reached out and picked up the object. A real detective, she thought, would have used tweezers and immediately dropped the evidence into a convenient plastic bag. But where were the tweezers and plastic bags out here? Or even in the office? She would hardly find tweezers among the rough spanners and wrenches of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors.

She looked at Mr. Moeti. "A key ring."

He held out his hand. "Let me see it, Mma."

She watched him. "Is it yours, Mr. Moeti?"

He shook his head. "I've never seen this before."

"It is a little thing," she said. "It must be easy to drop something like that."

"Yes," he said. He was staring at her intently. "Mma Ramotswe?"

She took the key ring back from him. "Yes, Rra."

"Was this dropped by the person who did this thing?"

She gestured to the wide expanse of surrounding bush. "This is not a very busy place, Rra."

He looked embarra.s.sed. "Of course. I am not a detective-I am a farmer."

"How did you take the bullock away?"

He pointed towards the farm. "I brought my tractor. I came with my stockman."

"Just the two of you?"

"Yes."

She felt the key ring between her fingers. There was a rough edge to it; it was almost sharp; a small, metal map of Botswana.

"And could this be his?"

He answered quickly: "He has never seen it either."

"Oh? How do you know that?"

He looked away. "I mean that I do not think he has ever seen it. That is what I mean."

CHAPTER SEVEN.

A TRUTH ABOUT LIES.

MMA RAMOTSWE had told Mma Makutsi that they should close the office while they were out, but had said nothing about coming back. Mma Makutsi was conscientious-one did not achieve ninety-seven per cent in the final examinations of the Botswana Secretarial College without demonstrating responsibility and the capacity for hard work-but she felt, nonetheless, that Mma Ramotswe could hardly have meant for her to go back to the office after her shopping trip. Buying shoes was not a simple transaction; one had to take one's time about it, and it was already noon. If the choosing of the shoes took two hours-perhaps three, with time for contemplation-then there would surely be no point in walking back to the office (another half an hour) only to have to close up for the day an hour or two later. No time and motion expert would think that a good idea; such a person, she felt, would be more likely to suggest going home after the purchase of the shoes in order to be fresher and more energetic for work the next day. had told Mma Makutsi that they should close the office while they were out, but had said nothing about coming back. Mma Makutsi was conscientious-one did not achieve ninety-seven per cent in the final examinations of the Botswana Secretarial College without demonstrating responsibility and the capacity for hard work-but she felt, nonetheless, that Mma Ramotswe could hardly have meant for her to go back to the office after her shopping trip. Buying shoes was not a simple transaction; one had to take one's time about it, and it was already noon. If the choosing of the shoes took two hours-perhaps three, with time for contemplation-then there would surely be no point in walking back to the office (another half an hour) only to have to close up for the day an hour or two later. No time and motion expert would think that a good idea; such a person, she felt, would be more likely to suggest going home after the purchase of the shoes in order to be fresher and more energetic for work the next day.

Mma Makutsi had attended a lecture by a time and motion expert in her final month at the Botswana Secretarial College. It had been a riveting talk, perhaps the most entertaining of all the lectures they had received at the college, and she remembered almost every detail of what was said. The expert was a rotund man who had immediately engaged the attention of the students-or almost all of them-by telling them how he performed the task of getting dressed each morning. "I am very efficient," he said, smiling as he spoke. "When I get undressed, I hang my shirt on a hanger straightaway. Then, in the morning, if I am wearing the same shirt-and it is not efficient, I believe, to change your shirt every day, unless it is very hot-then in the morning I back up into the shirt like this, while at the same time picking up my trousers with my free hand, like this, and putting first one leg in and then the other. As I put in the first leg I make sure that a shoe is lined up to receive it when it comes out the bottom of the trousers. In this way, I put all my clothes on at the same time. It is a big saving of time. Three minutes and twenty seconds, to be precise. I have plotted it on a graph and taken the average."

The students had all been impressed-or, again, almost all of the students had been impressed. Violet Sephotho, of course, had pretended to be bemused by it all.

"Big nonsense," she said scornfully as they filed out of the lecture room. "No man gets undressed in the way he says they do. Men do not hang their shirts on hangers when they get undressed."

"Yes, they do," said Mma Makutsi. "I do not think that this college invites liars to become visiting lecturers. He said they do, and I believe him."

Violet looked at her pityingly. "What do you you know about it, Grace Makutsi? What do know about it, Grace Makutsi? What do you you know about the way men get undressed?" know about the way men get undressed?"

And then she had smiled knowingly and flounced away, examining her painted fingernails with elaborate interest.

"She is always talking," whispered one of Mma Makutsi's friends. "Men run away from women like that. They put on on their clothes when they see her coming. That is the real truth." their clothes when they see her coming. That is the real truth."

Mma Makutsi would have liked to believe that, but felt that the evidence actually pointed the other way. Men had seemed to flock around Violet the moment she left the front gate of the secretarial college. That was a good place for idle men to congregate, for some reason. There was always a small knot of men at the front gate, pretending to have business there, but hoping only to get a glimpse of, and perhaps share a word or two with, girls like Violet. It was sad, thought Mma Makutsi; surely these men had something better to do, but the truth of the matter was that they did not. In the minds of the men who used to attend at the gate, this was by far the best way they could conjure up of spending their time.

As she approached the shop in the Riverwalk shopping centre, Mma Makutsi remembered that time and motion lecture. Efficiency was, in general, a good goal, but she felt, as she saw the mouth-watering selection of shoes displayed in the window, that this was not an occasion on which it should be practised. Just in from Pariss Just in from Pariss panted an enthusiastic sign. panted an enthusiastic sign. Pariss Pariss? There was an extra s s there, she concluded; she would have to point it out to them-gently, of course, but one could not let these things go uncorrected. And she doubted, too, whether these shoes came from Paris; Johannesburg, perhaps, or maybe Nairobi. But if they really came from Paris they would surely be even more expensive than they already were. there, she concluded; she would have to point it out to them-gently, of course, but one could not let these things go uncorrected. And she doubted, too, whether these shoes came from Paris; Johannesburg, perhaps, or maybe Nairobi. But if they really came from Paris they would surely be even more expensive than they already were.

She looked for the pair of shoes that Mma Ramotswe had identified. There was a pair placed on a pedestal, and she thought they were probably the ones. She peered at them. They were attractive, yes, and she could see how they might be tempting for somebody slightly older, but they were not quite right. Her eye moved to another pair, and then met the gaze of the a.s.sistant inside the shop, who was looking back out at her. The a.s.sistant waved; they knew each other and got on well.

Mma Makutsi pushed open the gla.s.s door of the shop. "Dumela, Patricia. You are well?" Patricia. You are well?"

The a.s.sistant smiled. "I saw you before you saw me, my sister. I could tell that you were coming in here. Shoes for your wedding?"

Mma Makutsi nodded. "Phuti has encouraged me. He says that I can buy whatever shoes I want. There is no budget on these."

Patricia was impressed. She clapped her hands together like a schoolgirl antic.i.p.ating a treat. "No budget! He is a very good fiance if he says 'no budget'! You must marry him quickly, Grace, so that he becomes a husband who says 'no budget.' Such husbands are very unusual. In fact, you usually only find them in museums, they are so rare. Husband museums."

They both laughed. But then Patricia leaned forward to touch Mma Makutsi sympathetically on the forearm. "I heard, Mma. I heard that bad news about poor Phuti's accident. So sad!"

Mma Makutsi thanked her. "He has made a very good recovery. You know that he lost a foot?"

Patricia closed her eyes in sympathy. They had a small box of single shoes in the back of the shop-shoes that had been separated from their twin through theft or bad stock control; would one of these fit Phuti, and thus find a home that way? She wondered whether she should ask, but decided that it might not be tactful, particularly so soon after the accident; perhaps later she might say, "Mma, there are some men's single shoes in the back, if they could be of any use..." Instead she said now, "Ow! I'd heard that, Mma. That was very bad news."

But bad news should not be allowed to interfere with the business of buying shoes, and the subject was gently changed. Leading Mma Makutsi to the display stands, Patricia gestured to the tempting array of shoes. "Look at this, Mma: Is this not a sight that makes you happy that you're a woman?"

They both laughed again.

"I am always happy I'm a woman," said Mma Makutsi. "Not just when I see nice shoes like this; I think that all the time."

She paused, her eye caught by a pair of black patent-leather shoes with red piping round the sides. They were not wedding shoes, but would be very suitable for wearing to dances-if she was going to go to dances, of course, which was now perhaps rather doubtful after Phuti's injury.

"Being a man is not easy," Mma Makutsi continued. "They are always struggling to prove that they are better than the next man."

"And they have those very rough skins," offered Patricia.

Mma Makutsi had not really reflected on that, but Patricia was right, she thought. Phuti's skin was not all that rough, but there was certainly a place on his neck where it looked as if he had reacted to the razor. Perhaps he should grow a beard. But that would merely exchange roughness for p.r.i.c.kliness, and she was not sure which was worse.

"And yet," Mma Makutsi said. "And yet there is much to be said for some men."

"Oh, that is true," said Patricia. "Just as there are some women who are..." She left the sentence unfinished.

"Very bad," suggested Mma Makutsi.

There was a silence, finally broken by Patricia. "Such as..."

"Violet Sephotho."

"Exactly."

Again there was a silence. Then Patricia said, as if speaking to herself, "Violet Sephotho, the politician."

Mma Makutsi frowned. "Did I hear you correctly, Mma? Did you say, 'Violet Sephotho, the politician'?"

Patricia nodded. "I did. Have you not seen the posters?"

Mma Makutsi had not seen any posters, and now she listened with dismay as Patricia told her about the posters that had appeared in her part of town a day or two previously. These were emblazoned with a large photograph of Violet, under which there was an exhortation to vote for her in a forthcoming by-election. Mma Makutsi said nothing as she absorbed this news. She had heard of the by-election-caused by the death of a popular member of parliament-but she would never have imagined that Violet Sephotho, of all people, would turn out to be a candidate. Violet Sephotho the shameless husband- and fiance-s.n.a.t.c.her; she who at the Botswana Secretarial College had been lazy and uninterested, going so far as to laugh at several members of the teaching staff, and to mock their ways of speaking; she who had achieved barely fifty per cent in the college's final examinations, and yet who had gone on to get glittering job after glittering job (such was the injustice of the world). What possible claim could such a woman have to represent the people of Gaborone?

"I am very shocked," said Mma Makutsi. "It will be a very bad day for Botswana if that woman is elected to parliament. It will be the beginning of the end."

"It will not happen," said Patricia. "G.o.d will not allow it."

"G.o.d cannot stop everything," said Mma Makutsi. "He is very busy dealing with big things. He cannot watch the results of elections here in Gaborone."

"Then the voters will," said Patricia.

Mma Makutsi pointed out that the voters might not know the full extent of Violet's unsuitability to be their representative. "Not everybody has seen what she is capable of," she said.

"Then we must tell them," said Patricia. "I shall put a notice in the window of the shop saying Do not vote for Violet Sephotho. Do not vote for Violet Sephotho. Many people walk past the shop window every day, and they will see this message." Many people walk past the shop window every day, and they will see this message."

"Every little bit will help," said Mma Makutsi. "I might make a badge with the same message and wear it every day. And I could ask the Botswana Secretarial College to put it up on the notice board outside the college."

This idea appealed to both of them, and indeed there were others, of varying degrees of practicality. The placing of a notice in the shop window seemed possible, but Mma Makutsi was less sure about the Stop Violetsponsored half-marathon, or the Violet Sephotho Prevention charity concert in the football stadium. "These are all interesting ideas," she said to Patricia. "But I do not think that we can do them all. For the time being we should just try the notice in your window."