The sympathy that Mma Ramotswe had felt for her earlier was now being replaced by irritation. She did not really like this woman, she decided, although she admired her, perhaps, for her loyalty to her philandering husband. “People get dismissed for other reasons,” she said. “Somebody who was stealing food, for example—that person would be dismissed if it were found out that government food was being given to her husband.”

Mma Tsau was quite still. She reached her hand out and touched the hem of her skirt, tugging at it gently, as if testing the strength of the seam. She took a breath, and there was the rattling sound of phlegm.

“Maybe it was you who wrote that letter,” she said. “Maybe …”

“I did not,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And nor did that girl.”

Mma Tsau shook her head. “Then who did?”

“I have no idea,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But it had nothing to do with that girl. There is somebody else who is blackmailing you. That is what this is, you know. This is blackmail. It is normally a matter for the police.”

Mma Tsau laughed. “You think I should go to the police? You think that I should say to them: I have been giving government food to my husband. Now somebody is threatening me? I’m not stupid, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe’s voice was even. “I know that you’re not stupid, Mma Tsau. I know that.” She paused. She doubted that Mma Tsau intended now to do anything more about Poppy, and that meant that she could regard the matter as closed. But it left the issue of the blackmail unresolved. It was a despicable act, she thought, and she was offended that somebody might do such a thing and get away with it. She might look into it, perhaps, if she had the time, and there were always slack periods when she and Mma Makutsi had nothing to do. Perhaps she could even put Mma Makutsi on the case and see what she made of it. No blackmailer would be a match for Mma Makutsi, assistant detective at the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency and graduate of distinction of the Botswana Secretarial College—Mma Ninety-Seven Per Cent, as Mma Ramotswe sometimes irreverently thought of her. She could imagine a confrontation between the blackmailer and Mma Makutsi, with the latter’s large round glasses flashing with the fire of indignation and the blackmailer, a wretched, furtive man cowering in the face of female wrath.

“What are you smiling at?” asked Mma Tsau. “I do not think this is funny.”

“No,” said Mma Ramotswe, bringing herself back to reality. “It is not funny. But tell me, Mma—do you still have that letter? Could you show it to me? Perhaps I can find out who this person is who is trying to blackmail you.”

Mma Tsau thought for a moment. “And you won’t do anything about … about my husband?”

“No,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I am not interested in your husband.” And that was true, of course. She could just imagine Mma Tsau’s husband, a lazy womaniser, being fed by his devoted wife and getting fatter and fatter until he could no longer see the lower part of his body, so large had his stomach become. That would serve him right, thought Mma Ramotswe. Being a traditionally built lady was one thing; being a traditionally built man was quite another. And it was certainly not so good.