THE BILLS ALL TYPED UP and sealed in their neat white envelopes, Mma Ramotswe remembered that she had something that she wanted to show to Mma Makutsi. Reaching into the old leather bag that she used for carrying papers and lists and the one hundred and one other accoutrements of her daily life, she extracted the letter which Mma Tsau had handed over to her the previous day. She crossed the room and handed it to Mma Makutsi.

“What do you make of this?” she said.

Mma Makutsi unfolded the letter and laid it on the desk before her. The paper, she noted, was crumpled, which meant that somebody could have crunched it up and tossed it away. This was not a cherished letter. This was a letter which had brought only anger and fear.

“So, Mma Tsau,” Mma Makutsi read out. “So there you are in that good job of yours. It is a good job, isn’t it? You have lots of people working for you. You get your cheque at the end of the month. Everything is fine for you, isn’t it? And for that husband of yours too. He is very happy that you have this good job, as he can go and eat for nothing, can’t he? It must be very nice to eat for nothing in this life. There are very few people who can do that, but he is one.

“But, you see, I know that you are stealing food for him. I saw him getting fatter and fatter, and I thought: that’s a man who is eating for nothing! I could tell that. Of course you wouldn’t want other people to know that, and so, you listen to me, listen carefully please: I will be getting in touch with you about how you can keep me from telling anybody about this. Don’t worry—you’ll hear from me.”

When she had finished reading out the letter, Mma Makutsi looked up. Her earlier expression of defeat, brought on by Phuti Radiphuti’s non-appearance and by her contemplation of her future, had been replaced by one of anger. “That’s blackmail,” she said. “That’s … that’s …” Her outrage had got the better of her; there were no words strong enough to describe what she felt.

“That’s simple wickedness,” supplied Mma Ramotswe. “Even if Mma Tsau is a thief, the writer of that letter is much worse.”

Mma Makutsi was in strong agreement with this. “Yes. Wickedness. But how are we going to find out who wrote it? It’s anonymous.”

“Such letters always are,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“Have you got any ideas?”

Mma Ramotswe had to confess that she had none. “But that doesn’t mean that we shall not find out,” she said. “I have a feeling that we are very close to that person. I don’t know why I feel that, but I am sure that we know that lady.”

“A lady?” asked Mma Makutsi. “How do we know it’s a lady?”

“I just feel it,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That’s a woman’s voice.”