CHARLIE CAME BACK from the funeral in his grandfather’s village the following morning. He was full of village news—the sorts of stories that always emanated from such places: whose house had been attacked by termites; who had married whom; who had gone off to Lobatse and who had come back, and why. Mma Ramotswe listened patiently. She knew the appeal of such matters, and she was pleased that Charlie, belonging as he did to a generation brought up outside the villages, should be enthusiastic about what happened in such places. This was the spirit of the country being passed on—it was as simple, and important, as that. But there was business to be done, and she gently reminded him of that.

“Very interesting, Charlie,” she said. “But we have work to do. We have a pressing case: a foreign client.”

Charlie’s attention was immediately engaged. “I am ready, Mma Ramotswe. I am fresh and ready to go. Whatever needs to be done—I am the one, Mma. Tell me, Mma.”

He sat before her in the client’s chair, leaning forward eagerly to hear every detail. She told him about Susan’s visit and the account she had given of her childhood in Botswana. Charlie nodded as she spoke; he understood.

“There are many people like that,” he said. “They come to Botswana and they fall in love—not with a person, Mma, but with a country. They like this place very much.”

“She was born here, of course.”

“Yes,” said Charlie. “That is different. But it is also the same.”

She did not press him on the distinction, but continued by telling him of Susan’s specific requests. “These are not the usual sorts of things a detective agency has to look into, Charlie.”

Charlie grinned. “No, Mma, this is not about bad husbands, or wives who become too friendly with other men. It is not that sort of thing.”

From behind him, Mma Makutsi, who had been busy filing, joined in. “There is more to our work than that, Charlie.” She paused amidst a shuffling of paper. “Even if that’s the only sort of thing that some people seem to think about.”

Mma Ramotswe’s expression told Charlie that she did not want him to engage with Mma Makutsi. He closed his eyes briefly, as if struggling with something. “Go on, Mma. Tell me more.”

She reached for the envelope into which she had slipped Susan’s photograph. “There is this,” she said, laying it on the desk between them. “This is the photo of Mma Susan as a small girl. This lady is her nursemaid.”

Charlie leaned over to examine the picture. “Then we can find her,” he said quickly. “We will show people this photo and say: ‘Who is this lady?’ ”

He sat back, looking at Mma Ramotswe with the satisfaction of one who has made a brilliant suggestion. From behind him, though, came Mma Makutsi’s voice.

“Done. Already done.”