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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.
    â€œYou 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 in
The 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.
    â€œAre 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.”
    â€œWell, 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.”
    â€œPeople’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.
    â€œThe 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