“It is,” answered Mma Ramotswe.

Charlie was excited. “We have found the place, Mma. This must be the place. The old house. The jacaranda tree. Everything’s right.”

Mma Ramotswe made a calming gesture. “Don’t reach conclusions too quickly, Charlie,” she said. “Some things might be right—other things might be wrong. We cannot tell yet.”

They left the van by the side of the road and walked up to the gate. Somewhere inside the house a dog barked, but became silent. A door slammed.

“Ko! Ko!” called Mma Ramotswe.

Behind the square white pillars of the verandah, a door opened and a woman appeared. She was carrying a broom, which she propped against the wall as she approached the front steps. She uttered polite greetings, glanced at Charlie, and then looked again at Mma Ramotswe.

“You’re Mma Ramotswe, aren’t you? You’re that lady from that…” She waved a hand in the direction of the Tlokweng Road.

“The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And this is my assistant, Charlie.”

Charlie looked pleased. It was the first time he had been called her assistant.

“I am called Mma Bothoko,” said the woman. She pointed to a group of seats on the verandah. They were white-painted metal, and shabby. They did not look comfortable.

“Please sit down,” Mma Bothoko said. “I will fetch you water.”

It was the polite, old-fashioned thing to do. The offer of water signalled to visitors that they were welcome.

“I’m sure this must be the place,” whispered Charlie as Mma Bothoko went back into the house to fetch water. “Look at that tree, Mma. It is just like the tree in the photograph.”

“There are many houses with jacaranda trees beside them,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“But this one is a very old one, Mma,” said Charlie. “Look at it. That big branch is just like the branch in the picture.”

“And the verandah?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “Are the pillars the same?”

She had the photograph in her bag and she brought it out. Charlie pointed at it exuberantly. “See,” he said. “Same pillars. Square—just like this place.”

“All verandahs were like that in those days,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It was the style.”

Mma Bothoko returned, carrying a tray with three glasses and a large green jug. Mma Ramotswe glanced at her as she sat down, noticing the lines around the eyes and the dry, cracked skin of the hands. She was, she thought, at least seventy, possibly slightly older.

“Are you the grandmother here, Mma?” she asked, as the water was poured out.

Mma Bothoko shook her head. “No, this house belongs to us. It is my husband and I who live here. He is…”

Before she could finish, Mma Ramotswe realised who they were.

“Of course,” she said. “He is the chairman of the Law Board.”

“That is right, Mma. But you know that, don’t you?”