Mma Ramotswe expanded on the contents of the letter. “This lawyer, this man in a place called St. Paul—that is a good name, isn’t it, Rra? St. Paul must be a good place to live—this man said that he is writing on behalf of a lady who is now late. He said that she was his client and his good friend, and that now that she is late, he is looking after her affairs.”

“Her executor,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.

“Yes, her executor. And it is because he is her executor that he has to find a certain person in Botswana.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni looked down into his beer. “Because that person owes money?” he asked. It would be a typical case, he thought; although the Government of Botswana very rarely borrowed money, the same could not be said of the people themselves, especially at the end of the month, just before pay day, when everyone’s pockets would be empty. It was very common then for people to seek a loan from some sympathetic friend or neighbour, or, if their luck was in, from a stranger whom they might never see again. It was not a grave failing—there were many worse—but it was a failing nonetheless. So somebody had borrowed money from an American visitor, and then the visitor had gone home and died and his executor had to look for the debtor to get the loan repaid. That was obviously what had happened here, and now Mma Ramotswe had to find this person and reclaim the money. Some chance of that, thought Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni …

Mma Ramotswe laughed. “No. I can tell what you’re thinking, but no. This is the other way round. The lawyer wants to give this person some money.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s expression showed his surprise. “You mean that the American person borrowed money from this Motswana? And now the lawyer wants to repay the debt?”

“I do not mean that,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I am talking about a legacy, Rra. That is nothing to do with borrowing, that is to do with gifts. This late person in America wants to make a gift to a person in Botswana. It is a legacy.”

“Ah.” Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni understood perfectly. Mma Ramotswe had received a legacy of cattle on the death of her father, and he had once been left a bequest of five hundred pula from a grateful client who had declared that Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was the only person who understood his car. Any news of a legacy was welcome news indeed.

She told him about the letter, hearing in her mind once more the precise phrases in the beautifully typed letter (Mma Makutsi might take note of the spacing; but that was another matter, and would not be mentioned now).

Dear Mrs. Ramotswe,