“For one thing, he’s too young.”
Celia looked down at what she had been reading. “He’s thirty-two.” 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—the military 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.”
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 I.”
“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-modern 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 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?”
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 po
led 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 Felding-Roth which would let you continue it.”
“That’s right,” Peat-Smith acknowledged. “My project—the study of mental aging and Alzheimer’s disease—is out of money. The university doesn’t have any, at least not for allocation to me, so I’ve had to look elsewhere.”
Sam assured him, “That’s not unusual. Our company does give grants for academic research if we think it’s worthwhile, so let’s talk about it.”
“All right.” For the first time Dr. Peat-Smith showed a trace of nervousness, probably, Celia thought, because a grant was important to him. He asked, “To start with Alzheimer’s—how much do you know about it?”
“Very little,” Sam said. “So assume we know nothing.”
The young scientist nodded. “It isn’t one of the fashionable diseases—at least, not yet. Also there’s no knowledge, only theories, about what causes it.”
“Doesn’t it affect old people mostly?” Celia asked.
“Those over fifty—yes; more particularly the age group over sixty-five. But Alzheimer’s can affect someone younger. There have been cases in people aged twenty-seven.”
Peat-Smith sipped his wine, then continued. “The disease begins gradually, with lapses of memory. People forget simple things, like how to tie their shoelaces, or what a light switch is for, or where they usually sit at mealtime. Then, as it gets worse, more and more memory goes. Often the person can’t identify anyone, even their husband or wife. They may forget how to eat and have to be fed; when thirsty, they may not know enough to ask for water. They’re often incontinent, in bad cases violent and destructive. Eventually they die of the disease, but that takes ten to fifteen years—years which are hardest on anyone living with an Alzheimer’s victim.”
Peat-Smith paused, then told them, “What goes on in the brain can be seen after autopsy. Alzheimer’s hits nerve cells in the cortex—where senses and memory are housed. It twists and severs nerve fibers and filaments. It litters the brain with tiny bits of a substance called plaque.”
“I’ve read something about your research,” Sam said, “but I’d like you to tell us yourself what direction you’re taking.”
“A genetic direction. And because there are no animal models for Alzheimer’s—so far as we know, no animal gets the disease—my studies with animals are on the chemistry of the mental aging process. As you’re aware, I’m a nucleic acid chemist.”
“My chemistry is a little rusty,” Celia said, “but as I understand nucleic acids, they’re the ‘building blocks’ of DNA which make up our genes.”
“Correct, and not so rusty.” Peat-Smith smiled. “And it’s likely that big future medical advances will come when we understand the chemistry of DNA better, showing us how genes work and why they sometimes go wrong. That’s what I’m researching now, using young and old rats, trying to find differences, varying with age, between the animals’ mRNA—messenger ribonucleic acid—which is a template made from their DNA.”
Sam interjected, “But Alzheimer’s disease and the normal aging process are two separate things, right?”
“It appears so, but there may be overlapping areas.” As Peat-Smith paused, Celia could sense him organizing his thoughts, as a teacher would, into simpler, less scientific words than he was accustomed to using.
“An Alzheimer’s victim may have had, at birth, an aberration in his DNA, which contains his coded genetic information. However, someone else, born with more normal DNA, can change that DNA by damaging its environment, the human body. Through smoking, for example, or a harmful diet. For a while, our built-in DNA repair mechanism will take care of that, but as we get older the genetic repair system may slow down or fail entirely. Part of what I’m searching for is a reason for that slowing …”
At the end of the explanation, Celia said, “You’re a natural teacher. You enjoy teaching, don’t you?”
Peat-Smith appeared surprised. “Doing some teaching is expected at a university. But, yes, I enjoy it.”
Another facet of this man’s interesting personality, Celia thought.
She said, “I’m beginning to understand the questions. How far are you from answers?”
“Perhaps light-years away. On the other hand we might be close.” Peat-Smith flashed his genuine smile. “That’s a risk that grant givers take.”
A maître d’ brought menus and they paused to decide about lunch.
When they had chosen, Peat-Smith said, “I hope you’ll visit my laboratory. I can explain better there what I’m trying to do.”
“We were counting on that,” Sam said. “Right after lunch.”
While they were eating, Celia asked, “What is your status at Cambridge, Dr. Peat-Smith?”
“I have an appointment as a lecturer; that’s more or less equivalent to assistant professor in America. What it means is that I get lab space in the Biochemistry Building, a technician to help me, and freedom to do research of my choice.” He stopped, then added, “Freedom, that is, if I can get financial backing.”
“About the grant we’re speaking of,” Sam said. “I believe the amount suggested was sixty thousand dollars.”
“Yes. It would be over three years, and is the least I can get by on—to buy equipment and animals, employ three full-time technicians, and conduct experiments. There’s nothing in there for me personally.” Peat-Smith grimaced. “All the same, it’s a lot of money, isn’t it?”
Sam nodded gravely. “Yes, it is.”
But it wasn’t. As both Sam and Celia knew, sixty thousand dollars was a trifling sum compared with the annual expenditures on research by Felding-Roth Pharmaceuticals or any major drug firm. The question, as always, was: Did Dr. Peat-Smith’s project have sufficient commercial promise to make an investment worthwhile?
“I get the impression,” Celia told Peat-Smith, “that you’re quite dedicated on the subject of Alzheimer’s. Was there some special reason that got you started?”
The young scientist hesitated. Then, meeting Celia’s eyes directly, he said, “My mother is sixty-one, Mrs. Jordan. I’m her only child; not surprisingly, we’ve always been close. She’s had Alzheimer’s disease for four years and become progressively worse. My father, as best he can, takes care of her, and I go to see her almost every day. Unfortunately, she has no idea who I am.”
Cambridge University’s Biochemistry Building was a three-storied red-brick neo-Renaissance structure, plain and unimpressive. I
t was on Tennis Court Road, a modest lane where no tennis court existed. Martin Peat-Smith, who had come to lunch on a bicycle—a standard form of transportation in Cambridge, it appeared—pedaled energetically ahead while Sam and Celia followed in the Jaguar.
At the building’s front door, where they rejoined him, Peat-Smith cautioned, “I think I should warn you, so you’re not surprised, that our facilities here are not the best. We’re always crowded, short of space”—again the swift smile—“and usually short of money. Sometimes it shocks people from outside to see where and how we work.”
Despite the warning, a few minutes later Celia was shocked.
When Peat-Smith left them alone briefly, she whispered to Sam, “This place is awful—like a dungeon! How can anyone do good work here?”
On entering, they had descended a stairway to a basement. The hallways were gloomy. A series of small rooms leading off them appeared messy, disordered, and cluttered with old equipment. Now they were in a laboratory, not much bigger than the kitchen of a small house, which Peat-Smith had announced was one of two that he worked in, though he shared both with another lecturer who was pursuing a separate project.
While they were talking, the other man and his assistant had come and gone several times, making a private conversation difficult.
The lab was furnished with worn wooden benches, set close together to make the most of available space. Above the benches were old-fashioned gas and electrical outlets, the latter festooned untidily, and probably unsafely, with adapters and many plugs. On the walls were roughly made shelves, all filled to capacity with books, papers and apparently discarded equipment, amid it, Celia noticed, some outmoded retorts of a type she remembered from her own chemistry work nineteen years earlier. A portion of bench was a makeshift desk. In front was a hard Windsor chair. Several dirty drinking mugs could be seen.
On one bench were several wire cages, inside them, twenty or so rats—two to a cage, and in varying states of activity.
The floor of the laboratory had not been cleaned in some time. Nor had the windows, which were narrow, high up on a wall, and providing a view of the wheels and undersides of cars parked outside. The effect was depressing.
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