By the time they were ready to have morning tea – the second (official) cup of morning tea – the office was looking distinctly more organised. It was not that Mma Ramotswe was untidy – she was not – it was just that Mma Makutsi’s standards were so high. She had a habit of expressing these standards in terms of an aphorism: An unfiled piece of paper is a lost piece of paper, or Dust settles thickest on unfinished work, or Never leave your desk at night with a sheet of paper on it: sheets are for beds, not for desks.

Mr J. L. B. Matekoni came in for tea first. He noticed the difference and smiled. He knew that Mma Ramotswe had been missing Mma Makutsi, and he was pleased to see them together again. Somehow, he thought, the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency without Mma Makutsi was like… He searched his mind for a suitable comparison, and came up with like a car with only one gear. It was a mechanical analogy, but so were all of his analogies and they served him well.

Mma Makutsi was back in charge of tea. Within a few minutes she had prepared a steaming mug for Mr J. L. B. Matekoni, of precisely the right strength (halfway between weak and strong, but slightly tilted towards the strong), and with precisely the right amount of sugar (one and two-thirds spoonfuls, stirred, but not too much). For Mma Ramotswe she made the usual redbush tea, which, again, she made according to a method that she knew would please the other woman. This involved leaving the tea to infuse until the aroma of the tea reached the nose when it was placed a hand’s-breadth-and-a-half above the open teapot.

When Charlie and Fanwell came in, they were both surprised to see Mma Makutsi.

‘So!’ exclaimed Charlie. ‘So you’re back, Mma! Nice holiday then?’

Mma Makutsi flashed him a warning glance. ‘I’d like to see you in a maternity ward,’ she said. ‘If that’s your idea of a holiday…’

‘I’m sure it isn’t,’ said Mma Ramotswe pleasantly. ‘And have you met Itumelang Clovis Radiphuti, Charlie?’

Charlie made a face. He had not yet seen the crib behind Mma Makutsi’s desk. ‘Itumelang What’s-his-face?’ he asked.

‘He is Mma Makutsi’s baby – and he is in that crib.’

Charlie took a step to the side and craned his neck. He gave a start. ‘Your baby, Mma Makutsi?’

‘Yes, you can look at him,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘But don’t touch him. I don’t want him covered in greasy fingerprints. And I don’t want him to pick up any of your language, Charlie – so watch your tongue.’

Charlie crept forward, followed by Fanwell. ‘Ow!’ he muttered under his breath. ‘Look at him!’

Fanwell smiled at Mma Makutsi. ‘It is a very fine baby, Mma. Well done!’

Mma Makutsi acknowledged the compliment. ‘Thank you, Fanwell,’ she said, and glanced at Charlie.