Mma Ramotswe could not believe that he was serious. “But, Rra, your book is famous. You have a rule for just about everything. Rule No. 6, for example …” She began to quote Rule No. 6; Clovis Andersen, barely concealing his surprise that there should be anybody who remembered that there was a Rule No. 6, let alone anybody who was capable of quoting it verbatim, listened in silence. Then: “Yes, Mma, that is indeed Rule No. 6, but all I’m saying is that I’m not necessarily able to sort everything out.” He stared at her, as if willing her to read something into his protestations.

Mma Ramotswe was not deterred. “Let me tell you, Rra,” she said. “Let me tell you about a very dreadful thing that has happened. We have a lady here who is the matron of an orphan farm. She is called Mma Potokwane, and she has many fine qualities. She is traditionally built, and she makes very famous fruit cake. She will do anything for those orphans—anything—and for many of them she is their mother. Mma Potokwane has more children than any other woman in Botswana—she is mother to many hundreds of children who are now grown up. That is what she is like, Rra.”

Clovis Andersen listened politely. “It sounds as if she must be much appreciated, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe replied that this was true, but it seemed to her that this appreciation did not extend to some members of her board. She told him of the dismissal, and of Mr. Ditso Ditso’s suspected role in it. “It must have been him, Rra,” she said. “Nobody else would think of such a thing. People like that think they should control everything—just because they are a success in business.”

“Indeed,” said Clovis Andersen, looking vaguely out over the square. He had no idea who Mma Potokwane was, but it seemed to him that to dismiss a woman like that—if she was like that—was not only foolish, but perverse too. When Mma Ramotswe finished, he tapped the table thoughtfully. “This sounds very nasty,” he said. “I don’t like that sort of thing. It’s a form of bullying, isn’t it? Hounding somebody out of her job because she sees things differently.” He shook his head. “Not nice.”

Mma Ramotswe waited for him to say more, but he seemed to be thinking about something else altogether. For a few moments she felt uncertain: Should she really be asking the great Clovis Andersen for advice on something as small, as local—at least in his eyes—as the dismissal of Mma Potokwane? But then he turned to her and said, “Mma Ramotswe, I think you’re going to ask me what to do. Is that right?”