“No, that’s never…,” replied Mma Makutsi. “It’s never right to be wrong.” She paused, and looked up at the ceiling for inspiration. “Of course, it may be wrong to be right—”

Mma Ramotswe interrupted her. “Or, rather, to think you’re right when you’re wrong.”

“That’s it, Mma. That’s what I was trying to say.”

They both sat in silence for a moment as they gathered their thoughts. Then Mma Ramotswe said, “You see, Mma Makutsi, it suddenly struck me that Mma Susan might not have liked Mma Rosie.”

She watched for Mma Makutsi’s reaction: sometimes Mma Makutsi rejected her notions out of hand, but this did not happen now. “Not liked her? Perhaps…But why, Mma? Why do you think that?”

Mma Ramotswe recalled the visit to the house on Zebra Drive. “When I took her to see my neighbour’s house, she didn’t seem all that interested in much of it. She hardly looked at the living room, you know. But when it came to the servant’s block—where Mma Rosie would have lived—well, that was different.”

“In what way, Mma?”

“Her whole attitude changed, Mma. She became tense. You know how people are when they find themselves in a place that…” She struggled to find the right words. “…in a place that’s…” It came to her suddenly. “In a place that’s painful to them.” That was the word; that was exactly right, and now it became clear to her. There had been pain—a long time ago—but the memory of that pain had now come back.

She had not been sure how Mma Makutsi would respond to this; she had very little evidence, after all, to justify the inference. But she need not have worried.

“But that’s it!” exclaimed Mma Makutsi. “But that’s what happened, Mma. That woman was cruel to her. She’s come to…”

“Confront her?” suggested Mma Ramotswe.

“Exactly, Mma. That’s exactly what she’s come to do. She’s come to confront her. I felt unhappy about both of them, you know, Mma. I didn’t like that Mma Susan because I thought she was not telling the truth about something. And I didn’t like that Mma Rosie because I thought she wasn’t telling the truth either.”

“But you thought she was lying about being Mma Rosie,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Isn’t that different, Mma?”

Mma Makutsi did not think so. “No, it was the same sort of thing, Mma. That’s what counted—it was the same sort of thing.”

They were silent for a moment as they considered the implications of what had just been said. At last Mma Makutsi spoke. “Some people who look after children are cruel, Mma. Aren’t they? It happens.”

“Yes, it does. And it can leave very deep scars, Mma. Very deep.”