"You remember me, Mpho?"

He looked up at her briefly, and then down at his feet. He was barefoot, and his feet were dusty. Such little toes, thought Mma Ramotswe.

"Yes, Mma. Yes."

She smiled at him. "You mustn't be afraid of me, Mpho. Look...look here." She reached into her pocket and took out the fragment of eggsh.e.l.l.

He glanced at the sh.e.l.l and said, "It's broken."

Mma Ramotswe handed it to him. "You can have it, if you like. There. Some people think that this brings good luck. Have you heard that before?"

He shook his head as he reached out to take the sh.e.l.l from her. She saw that he used both hands to receive the gift, as was proper. Somebody was still teaching children the right thing to do, even a poor little boy like this who could not have had much in his short life. She wondered whether he had ever been taken to Gaborone-probably not; or given a treat-almost certainly not. She remembered her first ice cream and the pleasure she had derived from that; how lucky she felt to have had a childhood in which she had been able to lay down good memories.

"When I saw you last time, Mpho," she said gently, "I thought you were a little bit frightened of something. I don't want you to be frightened now."

He continued to stare down at the ground. He was still shaking, she noticed.

"Sometimes, you know," she continued, "it's better to talk about something rather than to keep it inside you. n.o.body is going to punish you for speaking to me, you see. And I won't tell anybody that you have spoken to me. I promise you that."

He remained silent. A shadow crossed the ground beside them, the shadow of a large bird, a buzzard perhaps, that was soaring between them and the sun.

"Rra Moeti won't know," she said quietly.

The effect of this was immediate. He looked up sharply, into her eyes; and she saw his fear.

"He cannot harm you," she said. "He is not allowed to harm you. There is..." What, she wondered, was there to stop Mr. Moeti harming this child? The law? As embodied by whom? A policeman in a police post fifteen miles away? An official in an office in Gaborone even further removed from the world inhabited by this boy? "It is not allowed," she said.

He stared at her. His lip was quivering, and then the tears came. She stepped forward and put her arms around the boy as he sobbed. She felt him shaking in her embrace, the shoulders so narrow, so vulnerable.

She did not say anything until his sobs had subsided and she was applying her handkerchief to his nose. "There, Mpho. That's better now."

"I'm sorry," he stuttered. "I'm sorry I did it, Mma. I'm very bad and they can send me to prison now."

Mma Ramotswe had not expected this. "You...you did it, Mpho? Those cattle? The cattle you looked after?"

He nodded silently.

"But why? Why would you harm the cattle?"

"Because Rra Moeti is a bad man, Mma. He has done bad things to my mother."

Mma Ramotswe drew in her breath. The inexplicable becomes explicable, she thought. Yes, it was more or less as she had imagined. The poor servant woman and the powerful farmer. It was nothing new; it would be happening up and down the country-up and down every country, no matter where it was. People with money and land treated those without either of those things as they wished. Poor people were at their mercy; it had always been like this, and, sadly, it would probably not ever change very much. Oh, there would be changes on the surface, with laws and regulations making it harder for people to take advantage of others, but there would always be places, places off the beaten track, that laws and regulations never reached. And there would always be men of the view that laws that protected women had nothing to do with them, or were not meant to be taken seriously.

She took stock of the situation. The boy must have seen his mother abused-beaten, perhaps, or made to cower-and decided to take matters into his own hands. He must have felt completely powerless in the face of his mother's tormentor, and then realised that there was a way in which he could strike back at Moeti. Every Motswana loved his cattle, and Mr. Moeti was no exception. If one really wanted to hurt him, then what would be easier than to take a knife to the very cattle who knew and trusted one?

She was not sure what to say. Mpho had caused major loss and she could hardly ignore that, especially as it was her responsibility to find out what had happened. But how could she throw him on the mercy of Mr. Moeti-the very man who had been cruel to his mother? She remembered, too, that she had promised him that Mr. Moeti would never know that he had spoken to her.

She looked down at the boy. "Listen to me, Mpho. What you did was terrible-one of the worst things anybody can do. You must never do anything like that again, Mpho. Never. Do you understand?"

"You are going to beat me, Mma?"

She tried not to smile. "Of course not. What I'm saying is this: I can see how you felt very angry when you saw your mother being harmed. But you can't go and do something like that, even if you think that man deserved it. It is not the way we do things here in Botswana. Do you understand?"

He had stopped shaking, she noticed, and she thought that his voice sounded stronger.

"I understand, Mma."

She looked at him. She suspected that this boy knew all about punishment, and children who knew about punishment often did not need to learn any more.

"All right," she said. "You remember what I said. You remember it. Now, let's go back to the cla.s.sroom."

She walked him back to the schoolroom, her hand in his. As they crossed the short expanse of hot red earth she asked him whether he enjoyed being at the school. "And Mr. Modise?" she said. "Do you like your teacher?"

Mpho nodded. "I like him, Mma, even if he is too small, Mma."

"Yes, he is small," she said. "But you must always remember: small people are often big inside-and that is what matters."

"Maybe," muttered Mpho.

SHE DROVE BACK to Gaborone deep in thought. There were some enquiries that fizzled out remarkably quickly, when a well-placed question led to the rapid unravelling of what had seemed to be a tangled and opaque skein of confusing facts and half-truths. She had not expected the solution in this case to come quite so quickly, and so simply; but that, she reminded herself, was how many problems in this life sorted themselves out-quickly and simply. to Gaborone deep in thought. There were some enquiries that fizzled out remarkably quickly, when a well-placed question led to the rapid unravelling of what had seemed to be a tangled and opaque skein of confusing facts and half-truths. She had not expected the solution in this case to come quite so quickly, and so simply; but that, she reminded herself, was how many problems in this life sorted themselves out-quickly and simply.

She found herself thinking of Mpho's mother-the woman she had met in the Moeti house; of her subservient manner in the presence of her employer; of his dismissive manner towards her. She wished that she could do something about that-could release the woman in some way from the near-servitude in which she must live her life. But what could she do? This sort of oppression was nothing new; men did that to women everywhere, all the time, and there were some cases, less common perhaps, where women did it to men. Things had become better, of course, with the achievement by women of greater equality, but the news of all that would hardly have penetrated out there. A farm could be a little world, a law unto itself; even a house could be that too.

And then she thought of the boy. Her first reaction had been to believe him. His distress had clearly been genuine, and the words of his confession had come tumbling out unrehea.r.s.ed. But children made things up, including confessions.

For the time being, though, she would act on the a.s.sumption that he had been telling the truth. One thing was clear: the confession did not put the matter to rest. She had her duty to Mr. Moeti to consider; she might not like him, but he was, after all, her client, and she could hardly keep the truth from him. At the same time she realised that she could not go to him and reveal that Mpho was responsible for the attack. Not only was there her promise to the boy, but if she did identify him as having been responsible for the incident, then she would be accountable for whatever harm came to him, or indeed to his mother. Could she tell Mr. Moeti that she had discovered the culprit but that she would punish him herself? Mr. Moeti would hardly accept that, and he would have a point.

When she arrived back at the office, while Mma Makutsi made tea, Mma Ramotswe gave her an account of her visit to the school. She told her a.s.sistant about Mr. Modise, which interested Mma Makutsi a great deal; she had a cousin who was very short, she said, and had fallen into an anteater's burrow. "He was too short to get out," she explained. "And so he had to stay there until somebody came that way and pulled him out. But before that the anteater came back and was very cross that there was this short person in his burrow. Apparently he growled and tried to bite my cousin. It was a very dangerous situation."

Mma Makutsi had several more stories to tell about this cousin, but Mma Ramotswe gently interrupted her after the second story-a rather long-winded and unfortunate tale about the cousin's marriage to an unusually tall young woman. "Perhaps you could tell me the rest of the story some other time, Mma," she said. "I need to talk to you about this Moeti business."

"But it was very funny," persisted Mma Makutsi. "You see, when a very short man marries a tall woman-"

"I can imagine," said Mma Ramotswe. "But I really have to make some sort of decision, Mma, and it would be helpful if you could advise me."

Mma Makutsi put aside thoughts of short men and tall women and gave Mma Ramotswe her attention. She listened intently as Mma Ramotswe described the boy's sudden confession, clicking her tongue in disapproval. "Children do very bad things these days," she said, "because they see television. If you turn on the television, what do you see, Mma? You see people being violent-that is all that there is. And if you were a child watching that, what would you think? You'd think that this is how we should behave-breaking things, breaking people."

Mma Ramotswe understood that, but she wondered whether it applied in this case. "I doubt if that boy sees television," she said. "He is a herd boy and his mother is a kitchen servant, second-cla.s.s. I doubt if he has seen television."

"Then he will have heard about these things, Mma. That is how it happens. And remember that all those violent television signals are all around us, in the air. How do you know that violence doesn't spread that way?"

Mma Ramotswe did not wish to argue about this novel, and in her view highly dubious, theory. What she wanted to find out was what Mma Makutsi would do do about this. "But what would you do, Mma?" she pressed. about this. "But what would you do, Mma?" she pressed.

Mma Makutsi thought for a moment. "I would tell Moeti that you have heard that he has brought this upon himself by behaving badly. Then I would tell him that it was unlikely to happen again. If you have stopped it, then I think that you have done him a good service."

Mma Ramotswe was doubtful. "I don't know if he'll look on it that way," she said.

"Well I don't see how it would help him to punish that boy," said Mma Makutsi.

"You're right," said Mma Ramotswe.

"You could go to the police," said Mma Makutsi. "The police are always there."

Mma Ramotswe sighed. "I promised the boy that I wouldn't speak to anybody about what he said. Perhaps I shouldn't have made that promise, but I did. At that point I was thinking of him as a witness, you see, not as the person who did it."

"But, why didn't Moeti go to the police himself?" asked Mma Makutsi. "It's up to him if he wants to make it a police matter. He didn't-he came to you. So in fact it is not for you to go to the police, Mma. No."

"Perhaps not," said Mma Ramotswe.

"Well then," said Mma Makutsi, in a certain tone of satisfaction. "Well then, that solves that, doesn't it? QED-as we were taught to say at the Botswana Secretarial College."

"QED?" asked Mma Ramotswe. "What does that stand for?"

Mma Makutsi looked uncomfortable. "QED? I'm not one hundred per cent sure. I think it might mean There you are, There you are, or maybe or maybe I told you so... I told you so..."

Mma Ramotswe came to her rescue; she understood Mma Makutsi's sensitivity, and she did not want to show her up. "You may not be one hundred per cent sure," she said. "But I imagine that you'll be at least ninety-seven per cent sure!"

It was a very good joke, and it enabled them both to leave the issue of the Moeti attack and start thinking of something else. But Mma Ramotswe remained less than satisfied. She felt vaguely guilty, as if she had embarked upon a plan to conceal a major crime. And that, she suddenly realised, was what she had almost done; it was not for her to decide whether or not to disclose what had happened. A crime had been committed, even if it was a crime by a child-something that should normally be dealt with by a stern talking-to and promises by parents. No, she would have to go and see the boy's mother and hand the affair over to her. She would plead for the boy, but she could not protect him, nor his mother, completely; the world was not as she would like it to be, but there was very little she could do to change that. Withholding the truth from Mr. Moeti was wrong, but it was also wrong to break a promise to a small, vulnerable child, who would never forget that an adult he trusted had let him down. So here she was faced with two evils, and the lesser one, she was sure, was unquestionably the one to choose.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

CHARLIE COMES TO ZEBRA DRIVE, BY NIGHT.

THAT EVENING Charlie came to the house on Zebra Drive. He came quietly, appearing at the back door like a wraith, startling Mma Ramotswe, who was washing up after dinner. She had been standing at the sink, her hands immersed in soapy water, when she noticed the movement outside, half in the darkness, half in the square of light thrown out from the window. Charlie came to the house on Zebra Drive. He came quietly, appearing at the back door like a wraith, startling Mma Ramotswe, who was washing up after dinner. She had been standing at the sink, her hands immersed in soapy water, when she noticed the movement outside, half in the darkness, half in the square of light thrown out from the window.

"Charlie!"

He did not hear her; he was staring in through the window now, as if searching the room. She waved a hand, signalling to him, and he glanced at her.

"I'll let you in," she mouthed.

He did not look as if he wanted to come in, as he now seemed to retreat back into the shadows.

"Wait. Don't go away."

She dried her hands perfunctorily before opening the door that led from the kitchen to the yard outside. The open door cast an oblong of light in the yard outside, revealing the figure of Charlie, standing awkwardly by one of the struggling shrubs that Mma Ramotswe had planted in that difficult, rather sandy part of her garden.

She made an effort to appear natural, as if the arrival by night of an unannounced visitor lurking in the darkness was nothing unusual.

"So, Fanwell pa.s.sed on my message," she said. "I'm glad that you've come."

He mumbled something that she did not catch.

"Why don't you come into the kitchen?" she asked. "I can give you something to eat, if you like."

He shook his head. "I'm not hungry. And I don't want to see the boss."

She made a gesture of acceptance. "You don't have to see him. We can talk out here." She moved towards him, taking his hand. "I often like to come out into the garden at night, you know. It's a good time to smell the plants. They smell different at night, you see. They-"

"I cannot stay long," he said.

"You don't have to. You can go any time. But it would be better, don't you think, to talk about this."

She drew him towards the side of the house, to two old iron chairs they kept outside and rarely sat in, but he resisted.

"It is my business," he said sullenly. "I am not a child."

She squeezed his hand. "Of course it's your business, Charlie. Of course it is."

"Then why does she shout at me, that woman? Why does she-"

"Mma Makutsi?"

He sniffed. "She is like a cow. She is always talking like a cow."

Mma Ramotswe shook her head. "You two don't see eye to eye, do you?" It was, she felt, putting it mildly; Mma Makutsi and Charlie had sparred for as long as they had known each other-a personality thing, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had said. Petrol and diesel, he had added; they don't mix.

"She cannot tell me what to do," continued Charlie. "Those babies..."

Mma Ramotswe waited for him to finish the sentence, but he fell silent. "Those babies," she said gently. "Your children."

"I did not tell her to have them," he said. "It is her fault. She is a stupid girl."

Mma Ramotswe bit her lip. Mma Makutsi, she felt, might have a point; she kept her voice from rising. "n.o.body has to marry somebody they don't want to marry," she said evenly. "It is not a good idea to make people do that-they will only feel unhappy."

"I don't want to get married yet," said Charlie.

"Then don't," said Mma Ramotswe. "And she may not want you to, anyway. Have you spoken to her about it?"

He had not, he said. He had not seen Prudence since she had told him that she was pregnant.

Mma Ramotswe was still trying to be gentle, but her question slipped out. "Why? Why did you do something like that, Charlie?"

She saw the effect of her question: there was pain in his expression; she could see that, even in the faint light from the window.

"What could I do, Mma? I cannot look after her children."

"Your children, Charlie." children, Charlie."

He opened his mouth to say something, but she stopped him. "But let's not speak about that, Charlie. Would you like me to talk to her?"

She saw his eyes open wide.