“But the Mayor does not go into bars like that,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“You know what I mean, Mma. I did not say that the Mayor goes to bars. I do not think that he does. All I am saying is—”

Mma Ramotswe raised a hand. “It’s all right, Mma Makutsi. I know what you’re saying. But we have drawn a blank; that is the important thing. Perhaps this man is not having an affair at all. Perhaps it is just another case of a wife who is too suspicious for her own good.”

“Perhaps, Mma. But what now?”

Mma Ramotswe had been unable to come up with any ideas for further investigation—at least not at that point—and had explained to Mma Makutsi that it was time for a report. “A report lets the client know what we are doing,” she said. “It shows that we are not just sitting around talking about a case; it shows that we are busy looking into possibilities.”

“Leaving no stone unturned,” offered Mma Makutsi.

“Yes, Mma. That is a good way of putting it.”

Sitting at her desk that morning, as Mma Makutsi kept her shorthand pencil poised above her dictation pad, Mma Ramotswe cleared her throat. “Mr. Kholisani Olesitsi,” she began, “hereafter referred to as ‘the husband’—”

“ ‘The said husband,’ ” interjected Mma Makutsi.

“If you wish, Mma Makutsi, although I think that ‘the husband’ is clear enough.”

Mma Makutsi stared across the room at Mma Ramotswe, her glasses catching the sunlight from the window and reflecting it in little dancing specks on to the wall. If she sat in direct sunlight, thought Mma Ramotswe, there might be a danger that she could involuntarily start a fire, in the same way as one risked starting a bush fire if one left a bottle in the grass; the glass could act as a lens and focus the sun’s rays down to a point of white incendiary heat. “It is more official to say ‘the said husband,’ ” Mma Makutsi intoned. “It means that you are talking about a husband you have already mentioned, rather than any other husband.”

“As ‘the said husband,’ then,” continued Mma Ramotswe.

Mma Makutsi’s pencil darted across the paper. She looked up. “I am ready, Mma.”

“We have carried out exhaustive enquiries—”

Again Mma Makutsi looked up from her pad. “Exhausting,” she said.

Mma Ramotswe sighed. Mma Makutsi did tend to interrupt dictation with the occasional suggestion, but not usually as frequently as she was now doing. Could it be, she wondered, that her new status as Mrs. Phuti Radiphuti was going to her head? “No, Mma Makutsi, exhaustive means many. It means doing everything you can. Exhausting means tiring.”

Mma Makutsi bit her lip. “I know that, Mma,” she muttered. “I am not some ignorant lady who has never been to a college …”