‘I work for Mma Sheba,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘I have come to see that everything is all right.’

The woman visibly relaxed. ‘You are very welcome, Mma. I am Mma Molapo – I am the sister of my brother, who is late.’

Mma Ramotswe lowered her gaze respectfully. ‘I am sorry about that, Mma. I am very sorry.’

Mma Molapo accepted the sympathy gracefully. ‘It was too early, Mma, but when it is the will of the Lord, then we must accept it.’

‘That is true, Mma,’ said Mma Ramotswe.

There was a brief pause before Mma Molapo invited her in. ‘Would you like some water, Mma?’ she asked. ‘Or perhaps some tea?’

‘If there is tea,’ said Mma Ramotswe, ‘then I will be very happy.’

‘There is tea.’

‘Then I am very happy.’

Mma Molapo led her into the house, into a rather dark and empty corridor, and then, from there, into a sitting room. The room was furnished with several green armchairs, angular and box-like in their construction, with wooden facings on the arms that provided a place for chrome ashtrays. The dark green fabric of the chairs had been stained here and there by ancient cups of tea that had toppled and spilled. The shabbiness of the furniture was compounded by the appearance in one or two places of cigarette burns. On the walls, several pictures hung from a picture-rail below the ceiling. There was a picture of a Brahman bull with its great white hump; another picture of a Dakota aircraft on the runway of the old Gaborone airfield; and a framed photograph of Sir Seretse Khama meeting a much younger Prince Charles.

Mma Molapo noticed Mma Ramotswe’s interest in the picture of Seretse Khama. ‘Do you like that picture, Mma?’ she asked.

Mma Ramotswe nodded, and moved closer to examine it.

Mma Molapo, who had been polite but perhaps a bit reserved, became animated. ‘If you look at Prince Charles you can see that he knows that this is a great man whose hand he is shaking.’

Mma Ramotswe continued to stare at the picture. She had a plate with a picture of the Queen on it, and a biscuit tin with Prince Charles on the top. ‘My father met Seretse,’ she said. ‘When he came to Mochudi, he met him.’

Mma Molapo absorbed this. ‘You know who my father was, Mma?’

‘I do, Mma. He was a good friend of Seretse’s.’

Mma Molapo smiled. ‘I met him too. Many times. He came to this house once and sat in that chair over there, Mma – that very chair.’

Mma Ramotswe looked at the shabby green armchair that suddenly seemed so important.

‘Why don’t you sit in it, Mma?’ said Mma Molapo. ‘I’ll fetch tea.’