It felt very strange to be carrying out an investigation without Mma Makutsi’s advice and assistance. Mma Ramotswe had become so accustomed to discussing issues with her assistant that now, on her own, it seemed to her as if a standard office procedure had suddenly changed. With Mma Makutsi at her desk on the other side of the room, she could toss ideas into the air in the certainty that they would be examined, debated and then either confirmed or rejected. Now she had only herself with whom to conduct those meandering dialogues by means of which she was used to sorting out the tangled issues that people brought to the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. And these issues were sometimes hopelessly tangled – and then it was only through some extraordinary serendipitous insight that the situation became clearer. Often that insight was triggered by something that Mma Makutsi said, by some question that she asked. Not now, though, and, rather to her surprise, Mma Ramotswe felt vulnerable as a result. There was Mr J. L. B. Matekoni to run ideas past, but helpful though he was he did not have feminine insight – for which she could hardly blame him. Feminine insight did not always go with mechanical ability – it could, of course, especially now that men and women were being encouraged to do the same things, but as a general rule it did not. One had to be realistic about that.

Mma Ramotswe was relieved that Mma Makutsi’s absence was not going to be a long one, but she could hardly shelve all cases until such time as her assistant returned. So the day after she had paid that first visit to the Radiphuti house to inspect the new baby, she decided that it was time to tackle the matter that Mma Sheba had recently entrusted to her. She had done nothing so far, and Mma Sheba had said something about phoning up to hear about progress in a week or so. She could not put it off any longer.

Seated at her desk in the office, a cup of freshly brewed redbush tea within reach, she took a blank piece of paper and wrote a summary of what she knew. It was always useful – and sometimes sobering – to write down what you knew. Occasionally the paper remained blank, which was instructive, if somewhat unsettling.

It was not blank that morning. Rra Edgar, she wrote. Had farm. Had brother. Brother went to Swaziland and had son, Liso Molapo. Sister, aunt of boy in Swaziland, stayed in Botswana, on farm. Rra Edgar dies. Farm goes to Liso. Liso comes back and claims legacy. Mma Sheba thinks he is not Liso. His papers say he is. Aunt on farm confirms his identity.

Those were the facts of the case as she recalled them. But that was only the beginning. Now came the questions.