Strong Medicine (33 page)

isn't it?"

Lord nodded. "Part of the brain. Memory disappears. The condition starts

slowly and gets worse."

Despite the research director's earlier aversion to Celia, he had

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come to accept her as a fixture in the company, and influential; therefore

continued antagonism would be pointless. The two had even progressed to

using first names-at first a touch awkwardly, but by now with ease.

Sam took the letters from Lord, glanced through them and read aloud, "Dr.

Martin Peat-Smith." Passing them to Celia, he asked Lord, "Do you

recommend a grant?"

The research director shrugged. "It's a long shot. Alzheimer's has

baffled scientists since 1906 when it was first diagnosed. What

Peat-Smith is doing is studying the aging process of the brain, hoping

to find a cause of Alzheimer's while he does."

"What are his chances?"

"Slim."

"We might put up some money," Sam said. "If we have time, I'll talk with

him. But other things come first."

Celia, who had been studying the letters, asked, "Is Dr. PeatSmith a

possible candidate for institute director?"

Lord looked surprised, then answered, "No."

"Why not?"

"For one thing, he's too young."

Celia looked down at what she had been reading. "He's thirtytwo." She

smiled. "Weren't you about that age, Vince, when you came here?"

He replied tautly, some of his normal irritation surfacing. "The

circumstances were different."

"Let's talk about these other people," Sam said. He had gone back to the

original list. "Vince, brief me on them."

9

June 1972. London was a blaze of pageantry and color. Celia reveled in

it.

In public parks and gardens a multitude of flowers-roses, lilacs,

azaleas, irises--filled the air with fragrance. Tourists and Londoners

basked in warm sunshine. Trooping the Color-tke mil-

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itary celebration of the Queen's birthday-was a vivid, dazzling

performance to the music of massed bands. In Hyde Park, elegantly attired

riders cantered on Rotten Row. Nearby, along the Serpentine, children

happily fed ducks which competed for water space with splashing bathers.

At Epsom the Derby had been run against a background of tradition, style

and hoopla, victory going to the colt Roberto and jockey Lester Piggott,

riding to his sixth Derby win.

"Being here at this time doesn't feel like work," Celia told Sam one day.

"I feel as if I should pay the company for the privilege."

She was staying at the Berkeley in Knightsbridge from where, for the past

several weeks, she had traveled to more than a dozen possible locations.

for the Felding-Roth research institute. Celia was alone, since Andrew

had not been able to leave his practice to come with her. Sam and Lilian

Hawthorne were at Claridge's.

It was to Claridge's, the Hawthornes' suite, that Celia brought her news

and an opinion during June's third week.

"I've traveled all over the country, as you know," she told Sam, "and I

believe the best place for us to set up shop is at Harlow, Essex. "

Lilian said, "I've never heard of it."

"That's because Harlow was a little village," Celia explained. "Now it's

something called a 'new town,' one of thirty-odd established by the

British Government, which is trying to get people and industry out of big

cities."

She went on, "The location fits all our requirements. It's near London,

has fast rail service, good roads, and an airport close by. There's

housing and schools, with open countryside around-a wonderful place for

staff to live."

Sam asked, "How about a building?"

"I've some news about that too." Celia consulted notes. "A company called

Comthrust, which makes small communications equipment-intercom systems,

burglar alarms, that kind of thing-built a plant at Harlow but ran into

money problems. So now they can't afford the plant, which has roughly the

square footage we want. It's never been occupied, and Comthrust is

looking for a quick cash sale. "

"Could the building be converted to labs?"

"Easily." Celia unfolded several blueprints. "I've brought the plans.

I've also talked with a contractor."

"While you co-workers are poring over that dull stuff," Lilian announced,

"I'm going shopping at Harrods."

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Two days later Sam and Celia drove together to Harlow. As Sam threaded a

rented Jaguar through early morning traffic out of London, heading north,

Celia read that day's International Herald Tribune.

Vietnam peace talks, which had been stalled, would soon resume in Paris,

a'front-page report predicted. In a Maryland hospital, a bullet had been

removed successfully from the spine of Governor George Wallace of Alabama,

shot a month before by a would-be assassin. President Nixon, offering his

own assessment of the Vietnam war, assured Americans, "Hanoi is losing its

desperate gamble."

One item, from Washington, D.C., which appeared to receive unusual

attention, described a burglary-a break-in at Democratic Party national

headquarters at a place called Watergate. It seemed a minor matter. Celia,

uninterested, put the newspaper away.

She asked Sam, "How have your latest interviews been going?"

He grimaced. "Not well. You've made better progress than L"

"Places and buildings are easier than people," she reminded him.

Sam had been working his way through Vincent Lord's list of potential

candidates to head the research institute. "Most of them I've seen so far,"

he confided to Celia, "are a little too much like Vince-set in their ways,

status-conscious, with their best research years probably behind them. What

I'm looking for is someone with exciting ideas, highly qualified of course,

and possibly young."

:'How will you know when you've found someone like that?"

'I'll know," Sam said. He smiled. "Maybe it's like falling in love. You're

not sure why. When it happens, you just know."

The twenty-three miles between London and Harlow were amid increasing

traffic. Then, leaving the A414 main road, they entered an area of wide

grass boulevards with pleasant homes, separated in many cases by open

fields. The industrial areas were discreetly apart, concealed from

residential and recreational portions of the town. Some old structures had

been preserved. As they passed an eleventh-century church, Sam stopped the

car and said, "Let's get out and walk around."

"This is ancient ground," Celia told him as they strolled, surveying the

combined rural-modem scene. "Old Stone Age relics have been found from two

hundred thousand years ago. The Saxons were here; the name Harlow is from

Saxon words meaning 'the hill

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of the army.' And in the first century A.D., the Romans had a settlement

and built a temple."

"We'll try to add some history ourselves," Sam said. "Now, where's that

plant we've come to see?"

Celia pointed to the west. "Over there, behind those trees. It's in an

industrial park called Pinnacles."

"Okay, let's go."

By now it was midmorning.

Sam surveyed the silent, unoccupied building as he halted the Jaguar

outside. A portion of it, intended as showroom and offices, was of

concrete and glass, divided into two floors. The remainder, a metal-clad

steel frame, was on one level and designed as a spacious workshop. Even

from the outside, Sam could see that what Celia had reported was true-the

whole could be readily converted to research laboratories.

A short distance ahead of them another car was parked. Now a door opened

and a pudgy middle-aged man got out and approached the Jaguar. Celia

introduced him as Mr. LaMarre, a real estate company representative she

had arranged to have meet them.

After shaking hands, LaMarre produced a bunch of keys and jangled them.

"No sense in buying the barn without looking at the hay," he said

amiably. They moved to the main doorway and went in.

A half hour later Sam took Celia aside and told her quietly, "It'll do

very well. You can let this man know we're interested, then instruct our

lawyers to get started with negotiations. Tell them to wind up everything

as quickly as possible."

While Celia went back to talk with LaMarre, Sam returned to the Jaguar.

A few minutes later, when she rejoined him, he said, "I forgot to tell

you that we're going on to Cambridge. Because Harlow is halfway there,

I arranged to meet Dr. Peat-Smith-he's the one doing research on brain

aging and Alzheimer's disease, who has asked for a grant."

"I'm glad you found time for him," Celia said. "You thought you might

not."

After an hour's drive through more countryside, in bright sunshine, they

entered Trumpington Street, Cambridge, soon after midday. "This is a

lovely, venerable town," Sam said. "That's Peterhouse on your left-the

oldest college. Have you been here before?"

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Celia, fascinated by a succession of ancient, historic buildings cheek

by jowl, answered, "Never."

Sam had stopped en route to telephone and arrange luncheon at the Garden

House Hotel. Martin Peat-Smith would join them there.

The picturesque hotel was in an idyllic location, close to the

"Backs"-the landscaped gardens that provide a superb rear view of many

colleges-and alongside the River Cam on which boaters in punts poled

their leisurely, sometimes uncertain way.

In the hotel lobby Peat-Smith spotted them first and came forward. Celia

had a swift impression of a stocky, solidly built young man with a shock

of untidy blond hair that needed trimming, and a sudden, boyish smile

that creased a rugged, square-jawed face. Whatever else Peat-Smith might

be, she thought, he wasn't handsome. But she had a sense of facing a

strong, purposeful personality.

"Mrs. Jordan and Mr. Hawthorne, I presume?" The incisive, cultured but

unaffected voice matched Peat-Smith's ingenuous appearance.

"That's right," Celia responded. "Except, in terms of importance, it's

the other way around."

The quick smile once more. "I'll try to remember that."

As they all shook hands, Celia noticed Peat-Smith was wearing an old

Harris Tweed jacket with patched elbows and frayed cuffs, and unpressed,

stained gray slacks. Instantly reading her mind, he said without

embarrassment, "I came directly from the lab, Mrs. Jordan. I do own a

suit. If we meet out of working hours, I'll wear it."

Celia flushed. "I'm embarrassed. I apologize for my rudeness."

"No need." He smiled disarmingly. "I just like to clear things UP."

"A good habit," Sam pronounced. "Shall we go in to lunch?"

At their table, which provided a view of a rose garden and the river

beyond, they ordered drinks. Celia, as usual, had a daiquiri, Sam a

martini, Peat-Smith a glass of white wine.

"I have a report from Dr. Lord about your current research," Sam said.

"I understand you've asked for a grant from FeldingRoth which would let

you continue it."