Mma Makutsi thought for a moment. “He is a very foolish man,” she said. “Imagine putting your house in somebody else’s name, especially when that somebody is Violet Sephotho! How stupid can you be!”

It seemed to Mma Ramotswe that this did not help. Mma Makutsi may not be herself after all the strain of Phuti’s accident and operation, but she should know by now that this was not how one spoke of one’s clients, most of whom were vulnerable in some way, or afraid. “Whether or not he was stupid,” she began, “that is …”

“Very stupid,” said Mma Makutsi. “Not just ordinary stupid—very stupid.”

Mma Ramotswe sighed. “Maybe. But what about my question, Mma? Can you think of any way of helping this man?”

“No,” said Mma Makutsi quickly. “I do not see what we can do. I have no ideas at all. None.”

“So Violet Sephotho will get away with it?”

Mma Makutsi grimaced. “That is a very bad thought, I admit. But I’m afraid, Mma, that you are right. Sometimes wickedness prevails.”

Sometimes wickedness prevails. The succinct words echoed in Mma Ramotswe’s ears. It was probably true—there were times when wickedness seemed to be so firmly entrenched that any attempt to dislodge it, any rebellion against it, appeared futile. That had happened; many people had led their whole lives under the shadow of wickedness in its manifold guises—under oppression or injustice, under the rule of some grubby tyranny. And yet people often managed to overcome the things that held them down because they refused to believe that they could not do anything about it, and acted as if they could do something. It had happened before and it would happen again. In her short career as a private detective, Mma Ramotswe had encountered relatively few instances of evil, but she had seen some, and in each case she had seen the wings of wickedness clipped. Violet Sephotho had now stepped over a boundary that separated mere nastiness from real wickedness. She could not be allowed to prevail; she could not, and Mma Ramotswe told Mma Makutsi as much. But Mma Makutsi still doubted if anything could be done; although she now conceded that she would at least try to think of something, she held out little hope of coming up with a solution.

That issue put aside, they went on to talk of Phuti. “He is going to be discharged in a few days,” said Mma Makutsi. “The doctor says that he has rarely seen an amputation that went so well.”

The gist of this message was positive, but the word amputation hung in the air between them. There was an awful finality about it; an amputation might be treatment, but it had a ring of desperation to it, a sense of last resort.

Mma Makutsi went on bravely. “They have already measured him for a temporary leg,” she said.