“The thing about ostriches,” said Neil, “is that they are not very intelligent. In fact, ostriches are very stupid, Mma Ramotswe.”

“They are a bit like chickens, then,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I have never thought that chickens were very clever.”

Neil laughed. “That’s a good way of putting it! Yes. Big chickens.”

Mma Ramotswe remembered her meeting with Mr Molefelo, who had told her of how he had seen a man kicked by an ostrich and become late, immediately. “Chickens are not so dangerous,” she said. “I am not frightened of chickens.”

Neil raised an admonitory finger. “Stay away from ostriches, Mma Ramotswe. But, if you find yourself face-to-face with an angry ostrich, do you know what to do? No? I’ll tell you. You put your hat on the top of a stick and raise it well above your head. The ostrich will think that you are much taller than he is, and he will back off. It works every time—every time!”

Mma Makutsi’s eyes opened wide. What if she had no hat? Could she put something else on a stick and hold it up instead—one of her shoes, one of the green shoes with sky-blue linings perhaps? Or would the ostriches just laugh at that? There was no telling, but it was still an extraordinary piece of information, and she made a mental note to pass it on to Phuti Radiphuti the next time she saw him. She stopped herself; she had forgotten. She was not sure whether there would be a next time …

Neil reached for the tea-pot and poured tea for his guests. “You know, Mma Ramotswe, there’s something I want to talk to you about. I wasn’t going to mention it to you, but since you’re here, you might be just the person to deal with something. I know that you’re a … what do you call yourself, a detective?”

“Yes, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I call myself a detective. And other people call me that too.”

Neil cleared his throat. “Yes, of course,” he said. “Well, a detective is maybe what we need around here.”

Mma Ramotswe raised her cup to her lips. She had been right—there was something wrong. She had picked it up and, rather than doubting it, she should have trusted her instincts. There were usually ways of telling what was happening; there were signs, if one was ready to see them; there were sounds, if one was ready to hear them.

She looked at Neil across the rim of her cup. He was a very straightforward man, and although he was not a Motswana he was a man who had been born in Africa and lived all his life there. Such people may be white people, but they knew, they understood as well as anybody else. If he was worried about something, then there would be reason to worry.

“I felt that there was something wrong, Rra,” she said quietly. “I could tell—I could just tell that there was something wrong.” As she spoke, she felt it again—that feeling of dread. She half-turned in her seat and looked behind her, back into the darkened interior of the building behind them, where the kitchen was. A woman was standing in the doorway, just standing, doing nothing. Mma Ramotswe could not quite make out her face, and the woman withdrew, back into the shadows.