‘He will not come back,’ said Phuti mildly. ‘Snakes are very shy, Mma. They do not like to come into contact with people.’

‘Then why do they move into our houses?’ challenged Mma Makutsi, righteously. A cousin of hers up in Bobonong had been bitten by a puff adder, in the house itself, and had lost a leg as a result. She knew about these things.

Phuti had sighed and said something that she did not quite catch – something about conservation and respect for nature. But even if there were the occasional snake, neither of them felt anything but pride over their new house. For Mma Makutsi, in particular, it was an almost unimaginable leap from her modest quarters in Extension Two, where she had had what amounted to one and a half rooms, and water had to be fetched from an outside tap. Now she had a bathroom that she could only have dreamed of in the past – one with gleaming white tiles, and hot and cold running water, and a bath that would accommodate even Mma Ramotswe, or some other traditionally built person, with plenty of room left over. That was her greatest, most unimaginable luxury, and it would take more than the odd cobra to take the shine off that.

That day, after the visit of Mma Sheba to the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, Mma Makutsi returned from work early. She explained to Mma Ramotswe that she was feeling tired, having been up late the previous night, and Mma Ramotswe had suggested that she go home to take a rest.

The house was quiet when she returned. Phuti sometimes worked from home in the afternoons, as he had found that he could do paperwork more efficiently without the disturbances that dogged him in the shop, but that afternoon he had meetings with suppliers and had said he would not be back until after six. The maid who had looked after him at his parents’ home had been transferred to work in their new home, but it was a Thursday and that was her day off. So Mma Makutsi came home to a house in which the most noticeable sound was the creaking of the roof as it contracted with the dissipation of the day’s heat. There were other sounds, though, and these were the sounds that can be heard in every house if one has the time to listen: the sighing of the wind under the door; the rattle of leaves against a pane of glass; the faint rhythm of a dripping tap. These may be sensed before they are heard, half-registered in the mind before they are recognised.

She decided to lie down. The doctor had told her that she might find herself feeling suddenly exhausted and she should not fight this. ‘Remember,’ he said, ‘that your body tells you things.’