A Conspiracy of Friends

by Alexander McCall Smith

  “Which pub?” asked Basil with interest. “Which pub do they discuss Charles I in?”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean any particular pub,” said William. “I meant pubs in general.”

  Basil looked disappointed. “I would love to find a pub where these matters are debated,” he said. “It’s usually football. And I’m afraid I have no interest in that at all.”

  “I don’t blame you,” said William. “All these prima donnas prancing about the football field. I thought it was meant to be a team game.”

  “It’s the same with everything,” said Basil. “The cult of celebrity has infected everything.” He paused. “And their wives. People keep going on about footballers’ wives. Why not other wives? Mathematicians’ wives, for example. How about taking an interest in them?”

  William laughed. “The wives of mathematicians will surely be very different,” he said. “But I suspect that they won’t make such entertaining television.”

  Basil nodded. “Indeed,” he said.

  Then Basil glanced round the room. “Where’s Freddie?” he asked.

  William looked down into his glass; the feeling of loss was every bit as raw as it had been when he drove down to London on that melancholy evening. “Frankly,” he confessed, “I don’t know. He may be dead—in fact, I think he is.”

  Basil was aghast. “I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t—”

  William brushed the apology aside. “Nothing to apologise for,” he said. “You weren’t to know.”

  Basil asked what had happened and received a full account of Freddie’s disappearance at the farm and the fruitless search that followed. “I phoned the RSPCA,” William went on. “I put the word out, but no dogs answering his description have been handed in. So I fear that we’ve lost Freddie altogether—probably down a rabbit hole or something like that.”

  Basil reached into his briefcase, which he had brought upstairs with him. “Do you know this magazine?” he asked, extracting The World of Dogs.

  William glanced at the magazine and shook his head sadly. “I can’t say I’ve ever seen it.” He paused. “Oh look, I’m not thinking of getting a replacement just yet. Freddie de la Hay is—or should I say was—the most wonderful dog. He will be a hard act for any dog to follow, I’m afraid.”

  “No, that’s not why I’ve brought this along,” said Basil.

  “You’re getting a dog yourself?”

  “No. But look …” He paged through the magazine. “Here. Look at this.”

  “My goodness, that’s a dead ringer for my Freddie. Look at it. He had a patch of colour right there, where this dog has. Perhaps they’re related—I can imagine that Pimlico terriers are all related in one way or another.”

  “I think it’s your dog,” said Basil quietly. “In fact, I’m sure it’s your dog.”

  “I don’t see how you can say that,” said William. “Just because he looks …”

  He did not finish. Basil pointed to the side of the picture where the credits were set out, and William saw the initials: FDLH. “I just don’t believe it,” he said. “I just don’t.”

  “But it must be him,” said Basil. “Those are his initials, and I doubt that there is another dog in these islands who has the same combination of letters in his name. I think it’s an open-and-shut case.”

  William looked at Basil, and smiled. “Thank God for you,” he said.

  “Would you like me to track him down?” said Basil. “I have a few days off, and I would love to play the amateur detective. Please let me recover him for you. I’ll track down the photographer and get the name of the modelling agency or whatever. It’ll be plain sailing after that.”

  William did not have to ponder this offer for long.

  “I accept,” he said. And he thought: You nice, nice man. You kind, helpful man. You generous, decent man.

  66. Team Moongrove

  THE NEXT DAY was perhaps one of the most eventful days of Terence Moongrove’s life. That is not to say that his life over the last few years had been without incident. There had been his trip to Bulgaria—arranged by a few like-minded residents of Cheltenham—when he had first encountered the works of Peter Deunov and become involved in the sacred dance movement. That had been not only fascinating, but perilous as well: adherents of Deunov enjoy dancing on mountain tops—the better to communicate with Beings of Light—and Terence had very nearly slipped at an important stage in proceedings; very nearly, but had not, and had survived to found the ultimately highly successful Cheltenham Deunov Association. Then there had been the business with the Green Man, whom Terence had seen among the rhododendron bushes of his garden. It is given to few of us—in sobriety at least—to see an actual Green Man, and Terence was adamant that his had been no mere apparition. He was not to know, of course, that the Green Man in question was really Lennie Marchbanks bedecked in leaves, at the behest of his sister, Berthea Snark. And most recently there had been the purchase, with Monty Bismarck, of the 1932 Frazer Nash, which he and Monty were now planning to race.

  Monty Bismarck had lost no time in collecting the expensive racing car from Richard Latcham, a gifted and generous restorer of such vehicles. Richard had not met Monty before and was concerned that the young man knew what he was doing.

  “You will be careful,” he warned. “These cars can be tricky, particularly on bends. Please drive it responsibly.”

  “Yeah, sure, sure,” said Monty. “No probs.”

  “And you mentioned a co-driver,” said Richard.

  “Yeah,” said Monty. “He’s the geezer who’s paying for it. Nice guy. Terence Moongrove. Lives over in Cheltenham, near my old man. Heard of him?”

  Richard shook his head. “I can’t say I have.”

  “Drives a Porsche,” continued Monty. “Really keen on motoring. Great guy.”

  The Frazer Nash was brought back to Cheltenham, where it was much admired by Terence. Berthea, who was staying with her brother at the time, watched from an upstairs window as Monty and Terence examined the car on the front drive. She shook her head with a sense of foreboding.

  “I’ve lined up our first race meeting,” said Monty. “Tomorrow, in fact. There’s a good racing circuit not too far away—I’ve entered us for a couple of races. Me first, then you. We each get a go.”

  “That’s jolly exciting, Monty,” said Terence. “And I’ve already bought one of those old leather thingies you wear when you race these vintage cars—you know the cap thingies with the goggles? I’ll lend it to you, if you like.”

  “Cool,” said Monty. Then he added, “Don’t try to go fast, Mr. Moongrove. Not the first few times. Let the others get to the front; you just drive quietly behind them. Then you might have your chance to put your foot down at the end—who knows? But safety first, OK? Let’s make that the motto of Team Bismarck.”

  Terence smiled, but only for a moment. “Why Team Bismarck?” he asked peevishly. “Why not Team Moongrove?”

  Monty shrugged. “I just thought it sounded good. Team Bismarck—more cutting edge. That’s all.”

  “Well, I don’t see why we should use your name rather than mine when I paid for the car. I jolly well did, you know, Monty. It’s my car, you know.”

  Monty pacified him. “That’s cool with me, Mr. Moongrove. Team Moongrove it is. Sounds really cool.”

  On the day in question, they drove over to the racing circuit together in the Frazer Nash, with Monty at the wheel and Terence listening carefully as the issue of the gears was explained. When they arrived, there was already a large crowd milling about, and the Frazer Nash was much admired by those who considered themselves cognoscenti—which meant everybody present.

  Monty drove in the first race, and the car performed well, resulting in a fourth place. Terence, watching from the pits, where he was wearing a set of old blue overalls which Monty had obtained for him from Lennie Marchbanks, applauded loudly and patted Monty on the back as he got out of the car.

  “That’s really good, Monty,” he said.
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  “Yeah, wasn’t bad,” said Monty. “I had some pretty stiff competition. Brennan in an old Jag XK120, Mitchell in a Mitchell Supercharged Special, May in a Wingfield Special. Pretty good drivers, that lot.”

  “Well, I can hardly wait for my turn,” said Terence.

  “Yes,” said Monty. “And have you noticed that the chap who sold it to you is in your race? Richard Latcham. Just keep behind him—he’ll look after you.”

  “I will,” said Terence. “Go, Team Moongrove!”

  Monty smiled bravely. “Just remember, Mr. Moongrove—keep to the back. Best tactic. Don’t go too fast. Easy does it.”

  Terence’s race was announced. Pulling the goggles over his eyes, he climbed into the Frazer Nash and drove it hesitantly to the start line.

  “Ladies and gents,” said a voice over the loudspeakers. “Next race: the Tom Delaney Trophy. And a pretty impressive line-up we have too. Latcham in a Mitchell Special Mark 1, Conoley in a TR3, Catherwood in a Talbot-Darracq, Macpherson in a Supercharged Bristol 400 and Moongrove in a Frazer Nash.”

  At the mention of his name, Terence waved to the crowd and sounded his horn. None of the other drivers did this, and one or two of them looked at him in a curious way. Terence gave a further wave, especially directed at them.

  The race began. Latcham, Conoley, Catherwood and Macpherson all shot forwards with roaring engines, in a cloud of blue smoke; Terence started, but somewhat slowly, and also slightly erratically. However, he soon got the hang of the accelerator and the Frazer Nash picked up speed. At the first bend, he tried to remember what he had been taught about the gears but could not, and the Frazer Nash, not having differentials in its rear axle, rocketed around the corner completely sideways. Strange, thought Terence, as he pulled the car back the right way. The next corner came rather too quickly, and again the Frazer Nash’s lack of a differential resulted in an extraordinary sideways manoeuvre. This brought him past Latcham and Catherwood.

  By the time the cars were on the final circuit, Terence was in the lead. Unfortunately, however, he chose to change gear, hoping to build up a bit more speed. This might have worked, but instead Terence found himself in neutral and coasting to a stop. The other cars, swerving sharply, shot past him. Terence struggled with the gears and managed to engage one, which was reverse. He began to go backwards.

  When he arrived in the pits, Monty was there to greet him.

  “Fantastic driving, Mr. Moongrove!” he shouted.

  Terence beamed with delight. “I jolly well nearly won, Monty. Did you see me?”

  “I did, Mr. Moongrove. But what happened at the end? Why did you go backwards?”

  “The gears are jolly difficult, Monty. You warned me.”

  “Well, it didn’t matter. You did really well. Team Moongrove is proud of you.”

  Terence took off the goggles. “Thanks, Monty. But, my goodness, I could do with a cup of camomile tea. Do you think they’ve got any camomile tea here, Monty? It’s frightfully good for the stomach, you know.”

  67. A Phone Call from Switzerland

  IT WAS SHORTLY after Terence had returned from the racing circuit that the telephone call came through. He was soaking in a hot bath, reflecting on his first experience driving the Frazer Nash, and so the phone was answered by Berthea. She did not like answering her brother’s phone, as she found his callers were usually rather vague, mystical people who had no real idea why they had called in the first place. This call, as it happened, was for her.

  “Dr. Snark?”

  The voice had a foreign accent, and she wondered what she was going to be asked to buy. But it was Terence’s phone and not hers …

  “Yes.”

  “This is Millette Antoine calling from Geneva. From CERN.”

  “Lucerne?”

  “No, CERN, the European Organisation for Nuclear Research.”

  Berthea was at a loss. “Oh …”

  “Your son, Mr. Snark. He has been with us in a visiting group of politicians. I’m sorry to say there has been an accident.”

  Berthea sat down. Her breath came quickly. She closed her eyes, as we will sometimes close our eyes to shut out the unbearable. She felt a sudden, overwhelming regret. There was no other term for it. Pure regret. The son she had disliked so intensely. Her son.

  “I’m happy to say that he appears to be fine,” said the voice quickly. “He is very fortunate. The party was inside the particle accelerator and Mr. Snark was left behind by some terrible mistake, and we turned it on. We didn’t know.”

  Berthea gasped. “With him in … in the … in the accelerator?”

  “CERN very much regrets this, madam, I assure you. It has never happened before, and we shall ensure that it does not happen again. Procedures are already in place.”

  “How is he? You said that he was uninjured.”

  “He seems to be unaffected. But we have removed him to hospital for investigation, just to make sure. I don’t think he will be in for more than a day or two. He asked me to telephone you and assure you that he was fine—he thought that it would be a good idea to do this in case the accident got into the news. He didn’t want you to hear about it on the radio or some other way.”

  “How thoughtful of him,” said Berthea. “I’m very relieved.”

  She meant it, but no sooner had she said this than it occurred to her that something was wrong: Oedipus had been thoughtful.

  “May I ask you something?” Berthea said.

  “Of course.”

  “What was his state of mind? Was he very upset?”

  The answer came quickly. “Not at all. It’s quite remarkable, Dr. Snark, but your son was very good about it. He did not complain—not once. He said that it was very foolish of him to wander off from the group. He went to look at some magnets, apparently, and when he turned round the others had gone. He couldn’t find his way out.”

  Berthea’s mouth dropped. “Very good about it?”

  “Yes,” continued Millette Antoine. “I was on the scene when they brought him out. He seemed slightly confused at first, and asked what dimension he was in. But it was just a joke, I think, and then he apologised for causing us anxiety and said how sorry he was to have affected the experiment. It was quite remarkable. I remember thinking, in fact, this man is very saintly. You must be very proud of him, Dr. Snark.”

  Berthea spoke faintly. “Proud? Well …”

  “If I may say so, Dr. Snark, it’s typical of you British. You’re so understated. I am Swiss, and I can say that a Swiss person would be very angry to be trapped in a particle accelerator. We don’t like that sort of thing. And put a French person in a particle accelerator and oh là là! Or a German—mein Gott! You British are very accepting—particularly your son.”

  The telephone call lasted a few minutes more. Then Switzerland rang off, and Berthea Snark sat for almost half an hour, staring at the ceiling of the room in which she had taken the call. She was immensely relieved that Oedipus had survived, but her relief was eclipsed by her astonishment at the account she had had of his behaviour. This was not her son at all—or not how her son used to be. Had the experience changed him in some extraordinary way, perhaps by rearranging his neurons in such a way as to effect a complete personality change? Was such a thing possible?

  It was. In hospital in Geneva, Oedipus Snark, MP lay in bed, crisp white sheets pulled up to his chin. He felt physically fine—indeed he saw no reason to be in hospital at all, but they had asked him to go in and he wanted to be as obliging as possible. Yes, he felt well in a bodily sense, but he also felt strangely different. There was no anger; there was no ego—or at least the ego was not asserting itself; there was no sense of wanting anything. That was the curious thing, he did not want—at least not for himself. He wanted things for others. He wanted others to have what they needed. He did not need anything more himself.

  He asked himself whether he had always felt like that. He thought he had not. But strangely enough, the memory of what he had been like before
had faded. It was not him any more. He was a new man altogether.

  He got out of bed and looked out of the window. The hospital was set in extensive grounds and had a large ornate fountain in front of it. From this fountain there played forth jets of water, rising and falling in delicate sprays. Beyond the fountain there was a road that stretched out across a small parkland—the road along which he had been driven when they brought him there. A road … Where did it lead? he wondered. And the curious thought occurred: this was a road to Damascus.

  68. At the Drinks Party

  TERENCE EVENTUALLY EMERGED from his hot bath.

  “I feel much better for that,” he said to Berthea. “It’s a rather dirty business, motor racing. In fact, I don’t think I’ll do it again. There’s an awful lot of grease, and the noise, Berthy! My poor ears were ringing.”

  “I’ve just had a telephone call, Terence—”

  “Oh yes. Well, I’ve just had a hot bath, which was jolly refreshing. And now we’re going for drinkies, aren’t we? Those Jarvis people. What’s his name? Rufus. And she’s called something too, but I can’t remember … She’s Frances, isn’t she?”

  “My telephone call, Terence. It seems that Oedipus—”

  “I thought I might mix us a martini, Berthy—before we go to those Jarvises. I need Dutch courage to face people like that. He’s impossible, Berthy. No spirituality at all. Or none I can discern. I wonder why they even bother to ask us. Unless it’s you, of course, Berthy. Remember how you used to get all those invitations to birthday parties, and I just tagged along? And I used to cry because you had all the fun.”

  “Terence, that was a long time ago; we must move on from childhood.”

  “Oh, I’ve moved on, Berthy. You don’t need to lecture me about moving on.”

  “Good. Well, I wanted to tell you about this phone call I had.”

  “Not now, Berthy. I’m going to mix martinis. Very weak, even if we’re going to walk to Mon Repos or whatever they call their house. Just a little finger of you-know-what topped up with a splash of the other stuff. You leave it to me, Berthy. We can celebrate my race today.”