A Proper Cuppa Tea

by K. G. MacGregor

“How’s the mood at PharmaStat?” she asked.

  “To tell you the truth, we’re all paranoid. Shane’s convinced they’ll sack the lot of us.”

  “And Dr. Batra?”

  “Angry, frustrated. Everyone runs the other direction when they see her coming.”

  If anyone had reason to worry, it was Niya Batra, director of PharmaStat’s Cambridge facility. Minor breaches in protocol were of little consequence…small omissions in a patient’s history or a slight deviation in a treatment schedule. Those things happened everywhere, the exception, not the rule. But something had gone seriously haywire in Cambridge, endangering development of a very promising drug. Though Gipson had suspended the trial, the lab team remained confident Flexxene was safe. These aberrant results raised serious questions about PharmaStat’s compliance with protocols. Lark was here to get to the bottom of what had gone wrong.

  “Office or flat?” Wendi asked. “Though I should warn you, there’s never anyone at the office on Friday afternoon.”

  “I should at least pick up my car.”

  “Right, it’s in the garage at the Science Park.” Young and physically fit, Wendi easily hoisted the bags into the hatch as Lark waited by the passenger door, which she presumed was locked. “That’s me,” Wendi said gently. “We drive on the left, remember?”

  “Of course you do. I’m an idiot.” Lark hurried to the other side. “By the time I get that fixed in my head again, I’ll be back in Boston. For what it’s worth, I do fine once I get behind the wheel. But I always forget which side I’m supposed to get in on, and then I have to crawl over the gearshift because I’m too embarrassed to get out and walk around.”

  Wendi laughed politely, as would anyone when the boss made a joke.

  The boss. It was weird to think of herself that way, but until these anomalous results were resolved, everyone at PharmaStat would be kissing her butt.

  “Wendi, about Dr. Batra…I know you might feel uncomfortable criticizing how she runs PharmaStat. But if there’s something you think we should know—even something minor—don’t hesitate to come forward. Same with Dr. Martin.”

  Dr. Jermaine Martin was the facility’s deputy director. Along with Batra, he shared oversight of all trials.

  Wendi cast a wary look. “Is Gipson absolutely sure this was a cock-up? Say we did everything right and it turns out the drug really causes heart problems?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m here to find out.” Not the heart palpitations part—Gipson labs had provided strong proof that Flexxene hadn’t caused those. Lark needed only to document that PharmaStat had followed the trial’s protocols, particularly that they’d screened study subjects to rule out a history of heart problems. The aberrations could then be written off to coincidence, with the otherwise encouraging trial results validated.

  PharmaStat occupied a four-story glass and steel building amid the sprawling campus of Cambridge Science Park. This was Lark’s first site visit since last year’s renovations, which followed a major break-in and burglary. Now the building was ultra-secure. Even the parking garage was a fortress, with keycard entry and surveillance cameras.

  Wendi squeezed into a narrow space beside a silver BMW convertible. “Can’t believe Shane’s still here on a Friday afternoon. That’s his new baby.”

  Shane Forster drove a pretty fancy car for someone on an entry-level salary, Lark mused. It was a cynical leap to suppose that Shane, the other research assistant assigned to the Flexxene team, might be taking bribes to tank Gipson’s trials to benefit a competitor. How he could have caused three patients known only by their ID numbers to suffer identical life-threatening symptoms within a few days of each other…she hadn’t exactly worked that out. Enough with the conspiracy theories.

  Nearby was a row of tiny white hatchbacks bearing the PharmaStat emblem on the bumper. “Let me guess—one of those shoeboxes over there is mine.”

  “Afraid so.” Wendi tapped a key fob that flashed the lights and opened the hatch on the closest one, a Skoda. “Here, this is your key…and the one to your flat as well. You remember how to get there?”

  “In my sleep.” They transferred the suitcases but Lark held onto her backpack. “I’d like to go upstairs first if that’s okay. That way I can get the lay of the land and hit the ground running first thing Monday morning.”

  “Sure thing.” At the elevator, Wendi swiped her employee ID badge again and entered a four-digit code on a keypad. “You’d think we kept the Crown Jewels in here.”

  “Hunh…I bet the pharmaceutical patents in this building are worth way more than the Crown Jewels.”

  The elevator deposited them on the fourth floor. Lark recognized the tweedy green carpet and pale yellow walls as PharmaStat’s branded look, the same in its facilities all over the world.

  “That’s us over there, the plebes,” Wendi said, nodding toward a roomful of cubicles. “My cubby is second on the right if you need me for anything. Shane’s in the next one.”

  Lark followed her down a hall lined with private offices, only one of which was open. Inside, Dr. Martin sat at his desk perusing a stack of folders. A native of Ghana, he was a valuable conduit to Cambridge’s black community.

  “Dr. Martin, great to see you again.”

  “Dr. Latimer!” His face lit with a bright smile as he rose to greet her. “I was hoping Gipson would send you. It’s been too long…though I often feel you sitting on my shoulder.”

  “Yep, that’s me.” She’d worked with him the year before during a random review and thought him both friendly and professional. It was surprising in fact that he hadn’t been lured away to a more prestigious job. “Don’t let me disturb you. I’m just checking in. Looks like I’ll be here three or four weeks.”

  “Wonderful. We’ll have lunch.”

  It was connecting with smart, interesting people like Dr. Martin that made her appreciate the cultural opportunities she enjoyed with Gipson. She’d choose world travel for research over the demands of a busy hospital any day of the week.

  Wendi proceeded down the hall and swiped her card yet again to enter an empty office.

  “And this is you. Once you activate your badge, mine won’t work on this door anymore. Totally private, completely secure.”

  The executive office had a desk and credenza, a desktop computer, and a pair of matching armchairs opposite the desk. A glass wall overlooked a man-made pond with a fountain in the center.

  “Not too shabby. It’s a nice atmosphere for patient interviews.”

  Wendi removed an envelope from the desk drawer and laid out several items. “Security badge, network credentials, parking chit. You’ll have to meet visitors downstairs to sign them in and out.”

  Lark knew the drill. It was the same in Munich, Geneva, Cape Town…all places where she’d traveled to conduct onsite trial reviews. She tugged on a locked file cabinet. “And I take it these are the patient files.”

  “Everything you requested. Dr. Batra will meet you Monday morning with the key.”

  “Wendi, I’m really glad you and Shane are on the Flexxene team. Trust me, I’ve worked with research assistants all over the world. You two have been on top of things since day one.” Admittedly, she said that to virtually everyone as a way to set expectations. “Looks like I’m all set. You ought to sneak out early like everyone else.”

  “Thanks, I will…if you’re sure it’s okay. Just ring me if there’s anything else you need.”

  Lark stopped her at the door with a hand to her forearm. “What I said about Dr. Batra and Dr. Martin…let’s keep that between us, okay? I don’t want to start any wild rumors about either of them being under the microscope. Everyone’s under the microscope this time.”

  “Of course.”

  Alone in her new office, Lark shook off fatigue long enough to log onto the network and activate her badge. Then she sent a text from her phone: I’m here! Name the pub.

  * * *

  Channing awoke to the sound of gravel crunching beneat
h the tires, knowing at once they’d arrived at Penderworth Manor, the Hughes family home for five generations. Her last recollection was a grazing cow herd near Heronsgate, which meant she’d been asleep for over an hour. Little wonder, since she’d barely napped on the plane.

  Cecil stopped in front of the main entrance to the manor house, a resplendent two-story structure of Cotswold stone with steep rooflines and four chimneys. “Welcome home, dear one.”

  “Look at this garden, Cecil. You’ve outdone yourself.” Flower beds brimming with tulips surrounded the ornamental cypress trees on both sides of the columned entry.

  He beamed with obvious pride as he held her door and offered a hand to help her exit. “Run along and say hello to Maisie. I’ll take the luggage up to your room.”

  The heavy wooden door was the eighteenth-century original, varnished to a deep burgundy shine and appointed with worn bronze fixtures. She pushed it open and stepped into the great hall, an imposing room dominated by a staircase covered in worn red carpet. Stately portraits of her ancestors in gilded frames—including one of her late father wearing the uniform of the Royal Air Force—were hung on the far wall. It was the stern likeness of her grandfather, with his bushy eyebrows and handlebar mustache, that stirred her most. She’d miss him more than ever here in the halls of Penderworth.

  “Miss Channing!” Maisie, wearing a gray summer smock with a white apron, stood in the kitchen archway with her arms spread wide. “Come here, luv.”

  “Oh, Maisie. I’m so happy to be home.” As she returned the robust hug, the first tears of the day broke through, a natural drain of her anguish and tension. In that moment, it was clear that a few weeks at Penderworth were exactly what she needed for revival. The business of closing out Poppa’s estate would keep her mind busy, while the warmth of Maisie and Cecil would help heal her heart. By autumn, she’d be ready for her next challenge…a return to the States or perhaps a new job in London.

  “You look bone-tired, child. Get yourself upstairs for a proper nap.”

  Channing trudged slowly up the stairs to the second floor. The first room they passed was her grandfather’s study, where she paused in the doorway. For the spring, his favorite reading chair had been moved from its usual place beside the hearth to a window overlooking the River Cam. It would remain there, she decided, commemorating this room to his memory.

  As if reading her thoughts, Maisie murmured, “You mustn’t dwell on it, luv. It was peaceful…like he’d dozed off in the middle of a good book.”

  The study, with two walls of built-in bookcases, reminded her that settling Poppa’s estate would involve much more than receiving whatever remained of his deeds and accounts. As his only heir, she also was tasked with the disposition of his personal possessions. A renowned economist who’d taught more than forty years at the University of Cambridge, his trove of papers would be daunting.

  “Maisie, are they still going ahead with the dedication tomorrow? I thought they might wait until we’d assembled his papers.”

  “They’re quite determined. Miss Cross assures me the economics department has taken care of all the arrangements.”

  In a campus ceremony tomorrow, the university was naming its economics library in her grandfather’s honor. It was yet another surprising tribute. Following his death, her plans for a small memorial service were upended by the university’s request for a dignitary’s funeral at the Trinity College Chapel on campus, with the Earl of Alanford delivering the eulogy. Mourners had numbered in the hundreds, including students and faculty from Cambridge and several politicians who’d served with Poppa in Parliament during the Thatcher years. Channing had found herself impressed by the whole display, having never grasped the full scale of esteem for her grandfather’s scholarly and political contributions.

  “Also Miss Channing, Lord Alanford asked to buy a round at the Crown and Punchbowl after the ceremony for some of your grandfather’s close associates. He said to tell you Lord Teasely would be happy to collect you, and that he’s most delighted to have you back in England for a while. Shall I tell him you’ll attend?”

  Lord Teasely was Kenneth Hargreaves, the earl’s only son and Channing’s closest chum from school. Though she was always glad to see him, she wasn’t eager to surround herself with a pub full of stodgy old men—she’d had enough of that at the wake. But there was no polite way to say no. “Sure, that would be lovely.”

  “Listen to me go on. You must be exhausted from your trip.”

  They continued to her bedroom in the front corner of the house above the kitchen. Channing had chosen this room as a child so she could watch the drive for Poppa. His returning car was the signal to tuck in her blouse, turn off the music and put away whatever else amused her. A strict disciplinarian, he believed free time should be used for intellectual pursuits.

  “I can unpack for you if you like. Shall I turn down your bed?”

  “What I’d really love is a hot bath.”

  “Very well, I’ll draw it. You make yourself at home, dear.”

  There was something almost magical about her childhood bedroom. When she’d first returned to England as a child, terrified and lonely, the brass canopy bed had been her sanctuary. Inside its sheer blue curtains, there was no end to where her imagination could take her. Sharing tea with make-believe playmates, guiding a ship upon a turbulent sea…even picnicking with her mum on the beach at Cape Cod.

  How many times had she fantasized about sharing this magnificent bed with Payton? Yet her gut had somehow known Payton would never see this room.

  Chapter Four

  Lark wasn’t much of a beer drinker back in Boston but she liked the occasional bitter draft in a proper pub. Admittedly it had more to do with the pub experience than the drink itself. How could anyone sit on a bench that held a century’s worth of memories of mates popping in for a pint, and not feel nostalgic for that sort of metaphysical kinship?

  “Something to eat?”

  “Maybe in a bit,” she told the bartender, who’d come around to collect a couple of glasses from the next table. She’d made the mistake of not clarifying in her invitation whether they were meeting for lunch or just a drink. It would be another day or two before her stomach adjusted to the time change. In the meantime, she found herself hungry all the time.

  “Lark!” A middle-aged woman of Indian descent waved from the doorway, her broad smile rimmed with deep red lipstick that complemented her golden brown skin. Dr. Niya Batra, the woman whose work she’d been sent to review.

  Lark jumped to her feet for a hug. “It’s so good to see you. I can’t believe it’s been a year already since you were in Boston.”

  Oxford-educated with a stint at the World Health Organization in Geneva, Niya was more than a friend to Lark—she was a personal hero for having broken the glass ceiling at one of the world’s major pharmaceutical testing centers. They got together as often as their schedules allowed, whether in Cambridge, in Boston, or at research conferences in the US and Europe.

  “I’m so glad it’s you, Lark. That last fellow they sent…Robert, Rob…not much in the personality department. And he couldn’t hold his beer like you.” They shared a laugh at her Gipson coworker’s expense. “I was so sorry to hear about your mother. I know she was difficult sometimes, but she was still your mother. You’re allowed to grieve.”

  “Thanks. I’ve been going through her things with Roger. They lived together for fourteen years. It helps the process.” She blinked back sudden tears, her guilty response to all the wounds her mother’s passing had left forever unhealed.

  There was considerable irony in Niya’s compassion and understanding. She’d always had kind words for Lark’s mother after joining them for a family dinner back when Lark and Bess shared a home. Little did she know that Estelle Latimer distrusted dark-skinned foreigners even more than she did Jews like Bess.

  “You look terrific, Niya. Working out?”

  “I’ve been walking miles and miles on end since this awf
ul mess started. It’s how I cope with stress. And also chasing my new granddaughter around. She went from crawling to running overnight.” Niya paused to order a white wine and accepted a food menu. “We’re having lunch, yes?”

  “I was hoping you’d say that. I’m starving.” When the bartender left with their order, Lark took another swig of beer and drummed her fingers nervously.

  She appreciated the optics of how their friendship might call her objectivity into question, since her work occasionally required her to review projects Niya directed. One of the VPs at Gipson told her since their bosses played golf together, she needn’t worry too much about a conflict of interest. If anything, Lark felt it made her scrutinize the Cambridge trials even more.

  “Wendi Doolan picked me up yesterday and I tried to get her to dish on her bosses. That would be you and Jermaine.” She raised her glass to touch Niya’s. “She told me everyone’s paranoid about getting sacked.”

  “Can you blame them?” The smile faded and her voice grew serious. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t worried. Seven years at PharmaStat and I’ve never had such a case as this one. The executive board is extremely unhappy with me for breaking the blind.”

  “I read your report. What you did took a lot of guts. It was an awful position to be in.”

  Like most trials, the Flexxene study had employed a double-blind experimental design, meaning neither patients nor clinicians knew who was getting the skin patch with Flexxene versus the placebo, a patch that contained no medicine at all. Blind studies ensured that psychological factors and differential treatment didn’t influence clinical outcomes. “Breaking the blind” meant unsealing the record to see what group the patient was in. It wasn’t done lightly, usually only in life-threatening emergencies.

  “I still can’t believe so much went wrong, Lark. What are the chances?”

  “Small but not impossible. People get heart palpitations all the time for lots of different reasons. Obviously it was just a fluke that you got three cases, bam-bam-bam.”

  “Too bad those vulture reporters don’t believe in coincidence. You have no idea what it’s like to see your picture in the tabloids. ‘Mad scientist,’ they called me. I’d love to know who leaked our data.”