Mma Ramotswe bit her lip. “I have been making enquiries about that man,” she said. “I have been speaking to a friend who writes articles on business matters for the Botswana Daily News. I have asked him whether he has any information.”

Mma Potokwane shrugged. “Nobody knows anything. Your friend will say the same thing.”

This was true. The journalist had promised to see if there was any helpful information in the newspaper’s files but had come back with nothing to report. “He seems to be absolutely above board,” he said. “The money comes from straightforward businesses. A number of dry-cleaning places, a fleet of buses—that sort of thing.”

Mma Ramotswe thanked him for his efforts. She tried to keep up an appearance of cheerfulness, but she now felt quite despondent about the chance of being able to help Mma Potokwane in any way. Had she been able to provide her with ammunition, then she was sure that the redoubtable matron would have been able to stand up to Mr. Ditso and his friends on the board. But without that, then Mma Potokwane, it seemed, was powerless and all that she, like any of them, could do was to wait. So all three of them—Mma Ramotswe, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, and Mma Makutsi—found themselves bound up in a shared circle of anxiety, each unable to do anything much to reassure the others or to throw anything but a bleak light on the misfortunes of Fanwell and Mma Potokwane. “It seems as if everything has gone wrong,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I know that we should not despair, but everything seems suddenly to have gone wrong.”

“The whole world is tumbling down,” said Mma Makutsi. “It is surely the end.”

That, it seemed to Mma Ramotswe, was possibly overstating it, but she knew how Mma Makutsi felt. In fact, they both felt powerless, and were unable even to seek Clovis Andersen’s advice, as he had taken the opportunity to accompany his friend to visit a library being built at Ghanzi, on the other side of the country, and had left word that he could not be contacted for four or five days.

“I’m sure he will have something to suggest when he comes back,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“Maybe,” said Mma Makutsi, but then added gloomily: “But maybe not.”