“That place is not in the middle of town—it is not near the railway line, Mma. Yet when I said it was, she did not correct me.” She shook a finger for emphasis. “She did not correct me, Mma, and if you had really been born in Mahalapye, then you would not let a mistake like that go unremarked upon. You would not let people say Tlokweng is in the middle of Gaborone, would you? You would not, Mma. You would say, ‘Hold on, Tlokweng is miles away.’ That’s what you’d say, I think.”

Mma Ramotswe took Mma Makutsi’s wrist and led her gently round the side of the building. “We must get into the car,” she said. “We cannot stand outside talking about this.”

“There is more than enough evidence to prove this woman is an impostor,” muttered Mma Makutsi.

“Possibly,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Possibly, but not definitely, Mma. And there is a difference, you know.”

—

THEY DROVE IN SILENCE. Mma Ramotswe could not converse because she had to concentrate on driving Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s car, which, although slightly familiar to her, felt far too powerful. Her tiny white van had very little power—just enough to keep the wheels turning, she thought—and it would never run away with her, as this car seemed to be keen to do. For her part, Mma Makutsi had no desire to talk to the person whom she now thought of as the “so-called Rosie”—so she was silent too. And as for the woman, seated in the back, she simply stared out of the window, rather vaguely, as if she were thinking of something else altogether.

They drew near to the Sun Hotel. There, sitting on the verge of the road, their wares spread out beside them, were the ladies who made the crochet tablecloths. The woman had mentioned these in their discussion, and they were the signal for her to lean forward and tap Mma Ramotswe on the shoulder. “Turn left here, Mma,” she said. “This is the road.”

Mma Makutsi glanced at Mma Ramotswe. “Zebra Drive,” she said. And then, craning her neck to address the woman behind them, she asked, “Are you sure this is the road, Mma? Are you quite sure?”

The woman nodded. “I wouldn’t tell you it was if it wasn’t,” she said sullenly.

“I will go down here,” said Mma Ramotswe, and added, “I know this road well, Mma.”

“Well, the house is further down here—on the left.”

Mma Ramotswe drove slowly now, but she was not prepared for the sudden instruction that came from the back seat. “There it is, Mma. That is the place. That was the house those people lived in.”

Mma Makutsi gasped. “You see, Mma Ramotswe,” she muttered.

“That is the house,” repeated the woman. “I remember it well.”