CORDUROY MANSIONS - Book 3 In the Corduroy Mansions series of novels, set in London’s hip Pimlico neighborhood, we meet a cast of charming eccentrics, including perhaps the world’s most clever terrier, who make their home in a handsome, though slightly dilapidated, apartment block.  The universe seems to be conspiring against Freddie de la Hay and his neighbors at Corduroy Mansions, as they all struggle with their nearest and dearest in this captivating third installment of Alexander McCall Smith’s London series.   Berthea Snark is still at work on a scathing biography of her son, Oedipus, the only loathsome Liberal Democrat Member of Parliament; literary agents Rupert Porter and Barbara Ragg are in a showdown for first crack at the Autobiography of a Yeti manuscript; fine arts graduate Caroline Jarvis is exploring the blurry line between friendship and romance; and William French is worrying that his son, Eddie, will never leave home, even with Eddie’s new, wealthy girlfriend in the picture. But foremost in everyone’s mind is William’s faithful dog, Freddie de la Hay, who has disappeared while on a mystery tour of the Suffolk countryside. Will Freddie find his way home, or will Corduroy Mansions be left without its beloved mascot? “A heart-warming read. . . . [and] an excellent tonic for whatever ails you.”     — The Toronto Star “McCall Smith cooks up a delicious story . . . with a dash of mystery and a dollop of satire. . . . Comfortable, easy, homey.”     — The Washington Post   “Fascinating fare. . . . McCall Smith is by turns hilarious . . . and meditative.”    — Booklist (starred review)   “Teeming with charm. . . . ample humor and grace.”    — Publishers Weekly (starred review) “This third volume of Chekhovian soap opera is every bit as addictive as the first two.”    — Kirkus Reviews “You cannot beat McCall Smith for subtle musings shot through with insight and wit. His deft characterization enlivens the inner workings of everyday characters. His work offers a heartening view of [the] world.”    — The Daily Telegraph (London) “[Full] of warmth and wisdom and easy, accomplished writing that begs for a comfy chair.”    — The Times (London) “Whimsical. . . . McCall Smith specializes in subplots that punctuate the book like polka dots, relying on his considerable literary skills to link them into a merry pattern of human events.”    — The Washington Times “Quirky and original. . . . Told with warmth, wit and intelligence, and McCall Smith’s cast of characters are beautifully observed.”    — Daily Express Alexander McCall Smith is also the author of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency series, the Isabel Dalhousie series, the Portuguese Irregular Verbs series and the 44 Scotland Street series. He is professor emeritus of medical law at the University of Edinburgh in Scotland and has served with many national and international organizations concerned with bioethics. He lives in Scotland. Visit him at www.alexandermccallsmith.com. 1. The Only Unpleasant Liberal Democrat   Oedipus Snark had a number of distinctions in this life. The first of these—and perhaps the most remarkable—was that he was, by common consent, the only truly nasty Liberal Democrat Member of Parliament. This was not just an accolade bestowed upon him by journalists in search of an amusing soubriquet, it was a judgement agreed upon by all those who knew him, including, most notably, his mother. Berthea Snark, a well-known psychoanalyst who lived in a small, undistinguished mews house behind Corduroy Mansions, had tried very hard to love her son, but had eventually given up, thus joining that minuscule group—mothers who cannot abide their sons. So rare is the phenomenon, and so willing are most mothers to forgive their sons any shortcoming, that this demographic—that is to say, in English, these people —is completely ignored by marketeers. And that, as we all know, is the real test of significance. If marketeers ignore you, you are not worth bothering about; you are nothing; you are—to put it brutally—a nondemographic .   So intense was Berthea’s distaste for her son that she had once seriously contemplated arranging a DNA test to see whether there was any chance that Oedipus had been mixed up with her real infant in hospital and given to the wrong mother. She knew that this was clutching at straws, but she had read about such errors in a popular psychology magazine and concluded that there was a chance, just a chance, that it had happened to her. The author of the article had for years researched the psychological profile of those who had lived a large part of their life under a false belief as to the identity of their father and had only later discovered the mistake. In the course of discussing this not entirely uncommon problem, the author had casually mentioned two cases of a rather different error, where the woman thought to be mother was discovered not to be mother after all.   One of these cases had been of