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Noticing Mma Makutsi’s look of disapproval, Mma Ramotswe suppressed a smile. Her assistant was always irritated when this sort of thing happened. People would phone and ask to be put through to the boss, provoking from Mma Makutsi an indignant request for an explanation of what the query was about.

“I do not see why they cannot talk to me first,” she said peevishly. “Then I can put them through to you after I have told you who they are and what it’s about.”

“But that means they might have to repeat themselves,” Mma Ramotswe pointed out. “They might think it better to wait until …” She broke off. Mma Makutsi was unlikely to be convinced by this argument.

And this woman waiting for her in the office was another of these people who had been unwilling to tell Mma Makutsi what her business was. Well, one had to be understanding; it was often a big step to go and see a private detective about some private trouble, and one had to be gentle with people. She was not sure whether she herself would have the courage to consult a perfect stranger about something intimate. If Mr J.L.B. Matekoni were to begin misbehaving, for example—and it was inconceivable that he should—would she be able to go and talk to somebody about it, or would she suffer in silence? She rather thought that she might suffer in silence; that was her reaction, but others were different, of course. Some people were only too happy to pour out their most private problems into the ear of anybody who would listen. Mma Ramotswe had once sat next to such a woman on a bus; and this woman had told her, in the time that it takes to travel down the road from Gaborone to Lobatse, all about her feelings towards her mother-in-law, her concerns for her son, who was doing very well at school but who had met a girl who had turned his head and taken his mind quite off his schoolwork, and about her prying neighbour whom she had seen on several occasions looking into her bedroom through a pair of binoculars. Perhaps such people felt better if they talked, but it could be trying for those chosen to be their audience.

The woman sitting in the office looked up as Mma Ramotswe came into the room. They exchanged polite greetings—in the prescribed form—while Mma Ramotswe settled herself behind her desk.

“You are Mma Ramotswe?” asked the woman.

Mma Ramotswe inclined her head, taking in the little details that would allow her to place this woman. She was thirty-five, perhaps; of traditional build, like Mma Ramotswe herself (perhaps even more traditional); and, judging from the ring on her finger, married to a man who was able to afford a generously sized gold band.Clothing , said Clovis Andersen inThe Principles of Private Detection , provides more clues than virtually anything else (other than a pocket book or wallet!). Look at the clothing. It talks.

Mma Ramotswe looked at the woman’s clothing. Her skirt, which was tightly stretched across her traditional thighs, was made of a reasonably good material and was of a neutral grey colour. It said nothing, thought Mma Ramotswe, other than that the woman cared about her clothes and had a bit of money to spend on them. Above the skirt, the blouse was white and … She paused. There on one sleeve, just below the elbow, was a red-brown stain. Something had been dribbled down the sleeve, a sauce perhaps.

“Are you a cook, Mma?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

The woman nodded. “Yes,” she said, and was about to say something else when she stopped herself and frowned in puzzlement. “How did you know that, Mma? Have we met one another before?”

Mma Ramotswe waved a hand in the air. “No,” she said. “We have not met, but I have this feeling that you are a cook.”

“Well, I am,” said the woman. “You must be a very clever woman to work that out. I suppose that is why you do the job you do.”

“People’s jobs tell us a lot about them,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You are a cook, perhaps, because … Now let me think. Is it because you like eating? No, that cannot be. That would be too simple. You are a cook, then, because … You are married to a cook. Am I right?”

The woman let out a whistle of surprise. “I cannot believe that you know all this,” she exclaimed. “This is very strange.”

For a moment Mma Ramotswe said nothing. It was tempting to take undeserved credit, but she decided that she could not.

“The reason why I know all this, Mma,” she said, “is because I read the papers. Three weeks ago—or was it four?—your photograph was in the paper. You were winner of the Pick-and-Pay cooking competition. And the paper said that you were a cook at a college here in Gaborone and that your husband was a cook at the President Hotel.” She smiled. “And so that, Mma, is how I know these things.”

The disclosure was greeted by a burst of laughter from Mma Makutsi. “So you see, Mma,” she said, “we knew these things the moment you walked in here. I did not need to talk to you at all!”

Mma Ramotswe cast a warning glance in Mma Makutsi’s direction. She had to watch her with the clients; she could sometimes be rude to them if she thought that they were treating her with inadequate respect. It was a strange tendency, stemming, thought Mma Ramotswe, from this ninety-seven per cent business. She would have to talk to her about it some day and refer her, perhaps, to the relevant section of Clovis Andersen’s book in which he described proper relations with clients. One should never seek to score a point at the expense of a client, warned Clovis Andersen. The detective who tries to look smart at the expense of the client is really not smart at all—anything but.

Mma Ramotswe signalled to Mma Makutsi for a cup of tea. Tea helped clients to talk, and this woman looked ill at ease and needed to relax.

“May I ask you your name, Mma?” Mma Ramotswe began.

“It is Poppy,” the woman said. “Poppy Maope. I am normally just called Poppy.”

“It is a very pretty name, Mma. I should like to be called Poppy.”

The compliment drew a smile. “I used to be embarrassed about it,” said Poppy. “I used to try to hide my name from people. I thought it was a very silly name.”

Mma Ramotswe shook her head. There was nothing embarrassing about the name Poppy, but there was no telling what names people would find embarrassing. Take Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, for instance. Very few people, if any, knew what his initials stood for. He had told her, of course, as he was then her fiancé, but nobody else seemed to know; certainly not Mma Makutsi, who had asked her outright and had been informed that unfortunately she could not be told.

“Some names are private,” Mma Ramotswe had said. “This is the case with Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. He has always been known as Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, and that is the way he wishes it to be.”

The tea made, Mma Makutsi brought two cups over and placed them on the desk. As she put them down, Mma Ramotswe saw her looking at the client, as if preparing to say something, and threw her a warning glance.

“I have come to see you on a very private matter,” Poppy began. “It is very hard to talk about it.”

Mma Ramotswe stretched out a hand across the desk, just far enough to touch Poppy lightly on the forearm. It is a marriage matter, she thought, and these are never easy to talk about; they often bring tears and sorrow, just at the talking of them.

“If it is a marriage question, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe gently, “just remember that we—that is, Mma Makutsi over there and myself—we have heard everything that there is to be said on such matters. There is nothing we have not heard.”

“Nothing,” confirmed Mma Makutsi, sipping at her tea. And she thought of that client, a man, who had come in the previous week and told them that extraordinary story and how difficult it had been for both of them not to laugh when he had described how … Oh, it was important not to think of that, or one would begin to laugh all over again.

Poppy shook her head vehemently. “It is not a marriage matter,” she said. “My husband is a good man. We are very happily married.”