Mma Ramotswe read through the service sheet. She did not approve of the day’s choice of hymns, none of which was known to her, and she quickly moved on to read the parish notes. There was a list of the sick, and she ran her eye down this, noting, with sorrow, that many of those who had been on the list last week were still named. It was a time of sickness, and charity was sorely tested. There were mothers here, mothers who would leave children behind them if they were called. There were poor people and rich people too, all equal in their human vulnerability. Remember these brothers and sisters it said at the bottom of the list. Yes, she would. She would remember these brothers and sisters. How could one forget?

The choir entered and the service began. As she stood there, unenthusiastically mouthing the words of the unfamiliar hymns chosen for that day, Mma Ramotswe’s thoughts kept returning to the extraordinary finding of the pumpkin. One possible explanation of the mystery, she thought, was that the intruder had come back for some reason—perhaps to break in again—and had discovered his trousers hung out on the verandah. He had been carrying a pumpkin, which he had probably stolen from somewhere else, and had put this down on the ground while he put the trousers back on. Then perhaps he had been disturbed—again—and had run away without picking up the pumpkin.

That was certainly possible, but was it at all likely? Mma Ramotswe looked up to the ceiling of the Cathedral, watching the blades of the great white fans as they cut slowly at the air. No, it was unlikely that the intruder would have returned, and even if he had, would he have had the time to steal a pumpkin from somewhere else? Surely his most pressing concern, without his trousers, would have been to get home or to find some other trousers.

What seemed much more likely was that the disappearance of the trousers and the appearance of the pumpkin were completely unconnected. The garment had been removed by a passer-by, who had spotted the opportunity to acquire a perfectly good pair of khaki trousers. Then, earlier that morning, a friend had dropped off a pumpkin as a present and had merely left it there, not wishing to wake people too early on a Sunday. That was much more probable, and indeed was the solution that Clovis Andersen himself would have identified. Never go for the excessively complicated solution, he had written. Always assume that the simplest explanation is the most likely one. Nine times out of ten, you’ll be right.

Mma Ramotswe jolted herself back from these realms of speculation. The service was proceeding, and now the Reverend Trevor Mwamba was ascending the pulpit. She put from her mind all thoughts of pumpkins and listened to what Trevor Mwamba had to say. He had married them, under that tree at the orphan farm, barely six months ago, on that day of which every minute was etched into her memory: the voices of the children, who sang; the canopy of leaves above their heads; the smiles of those present; and those echoing words which had marked the beginning of her married life to that kind man, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, that great mechanic, who was now her husband.