Macmillan shook his head.
‘I think I’ll contact Barrowman and arrange a meeting, ostensibly to tell him what’s about to happen,’ said Steven, ‘but it’ll give me a chance to assess how he’s feeling about things.’
‘Like I said... devious... street wise.’
Dorothy Lindstrom entered the seminar room just after two o’clock to find her research group waiting expectantly for her. She plumped her heavy shopping bag on to the speaker’s desk and withdrew three bottles of sparkling Italian wine to a murmur of approval.
‘Do you think you could get us some beakers, Molly?’ she asked Molly Bearsden who was sitting at the end of the row nearest the door as chatter broke out all round. ‘We’re going to have a little celebration.’
The girl returned from the sterile glassware unit with a wire basket containing a jumble of glass beakers. She helped Dorothy strip the metal foil covers from the rim of each before whispering, ‘I don’t think Mrs Cotter was too pleased.’ Vera Cotter was in charge of the washing and sterilising of laboratory glassware and not a woman to be trifled with.
‘Ask her to join us,’ said Dorothy, popping the first cork and starting to pour. ‘Help yourselves everyone. We’ve had some good news.’
An orderly line, alive with chatter, formed in front of the desk.
Owen Barrowman was the last to accept a beaker, insisting that Vera and Molly precede him. He and Dorothy exchanged glances. ‘All right, Owen?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Any happier?’
‘Lucy’s pregnant.’
‘That’s wonderful news. Congratulations. We can have a double celebration.’
Dorothy looked for signs of agreement but found only a slight nod. She waited until he’d sat down with the others before announcing that funding had been secured. She basked for a few moments in the smiles and expressions of relief that filled the room before continuing, ‘I hope those of you who were considering applying for other jobs might reconsider so that we can continue together to enjoy the exciting times and discoveries that lie ahead.’
The murmurs were positive.
‘There is something however, that has been brought to my attention and I feel I should mention it at the outset. The money has certain strings attached to it. We will not have the usual academic freedom to submit our findings to the journals of our choice or indeed speak about our work at scientific meetings. This doesn’t mean we won’t be allowed to do that, it just means we’ll have to run it past our fund providers beforehand for approval. This won’t affect many of us but it might be something that will concern a few.’
Dorothy looked directly at Barrowman who looked down at the floor.
‘Personally, I can’t see this becoming a major issue. I’m sure it’ll just be a case of rubber stamping.’
Someone asked where the funding was coming from.
Dorothy looked slightly embarrassed but made light of it. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘The donor prefers to remain anonymous, Owen thinks it’s the Mafia.’
Owen continued to look at the floor but did his best to adopt a slight grin.
When the laughter subsided Dorothy continued, ‘The donors have instructed a legal firm to act on their behalf and act as intermediaries, which I think suits us very well. I can’t see lawyers wanting to poke around the labs all the time.’
‘Maybe they’ll just ask for written reports... all the time,’ said Owen.
‘That’s a possibility,’ Dorothy conceded, ‘but if they do we can complain and point out they’re interfering with research. It’s in the donors’ interests to keep us happy, don’t you think?’
Owen conceded with a nod but added, ‘The real problems will arise when we want to publish our findings and the donors say no.’
‘But, why would they?’ Dorothy argued. ‘It’s not as if we’re working on anything secret. We’re not designing chemical weapons or nuclear missiles. We’re simply trying to work out why people are the way they are...’
‘Supposing there was a disagreement, what’s to stop us publishing anyway?’ asked one of the technicians
‘Lawyers,’ said Dorothy in a way that suggested what she thought of the profession. The laughter suggested she wasn’t alone. ‘The university lawyers tell me the contract has been drawn up by people who knew what they were doing.’
‘Some of us will be obliged to sign binding secrecy agreements which would make us personally liable — in a legal sense — should we breach them.’
Jane Lincoln, the American post doc who had worked with Dorothy at Yale and who had moved with her to the UK, broke into laughter.
‘Something amusing you, Jane?’
‘Sorry, I was just thinking I’ve been working with a group of schoolgirls at a boarding school in Wales who more or less simultaneously developed a rash on their bottoms. I suppose it’s the idea of a rash on the bum being some kind of official secret... For your eyes only, Mr Bond.’
Everyone joined in the laughter including Dorothy. Even Barrowman managed a smile.
‘Well, there you go. I’m sure our funding body would see the funny side too,’ said Dorothy. ‘I honestly don’t think we have anything to worry about.’
This view satisfied the room.
‘Okay people, perhaps we can now talk about science and you can tell me what you’ve all been up to since our last get together. As you’ve already whetted our appetite, perhaps you’d like to start, Jane? You’ve got us all intrigued?’
Jane adopted a dramatic pose and announced, ‘This is the tale of the giant spider of Felinbach, a fearsome beast that stalks the corridors of the Aberconwy School for Girls in North Wales.’
Several people went, ‘Wooo,’ to add atmosphere.
‘Just over a month ago a young girl reported to matron that she had a rash on her bottom. When asked if she had any idea what might have caused it she claimed that she had been bitten by a large spider in the toilets but had been too afraid to tell anyone. She had been “in a state of shock” to use her words.
Word got around the school about a giant spider lying in wait for the unwary in the john and, in all, twenty-three girls developed a rash on the buttocks, reporting that they had been bitten too.’
‘Did you get blood samples?’ Dorothy asked.
‘I didn’t get there in time for the early ones but I did manage to get bloods and buccal smears from the final three to report the appearance of a rash.’
‘Well done. What are the medics saying?’
‘No sign of bite marks on anyone.’
‘Ah,’ said Dorothy.
‘Ah indeed,’ Jane agreed. ‘It turns out the original girl made up the story about the spider. She used stinging nettles to give herself a rash to get out of games which she hates.’
‘Her and me both,’ said Dorothy. ‘But presumably not all the others were similarly averse?’
‘No, but they all developed rashes.’
‘Nettle rashes?’
‘No.’ Jane paused for effect. ‘They had rashes consistent with insect bites.’
Jane achieved the desired effect. Eyes opened wide and mouths fell open.
‘Isn’t the mind just wonderful?’ said Dorothy to break the hush that had fallen over the room. ‘These girls believed they had been bitten and their brains managed to convince their bodies to respond appropriately.’
‘Frightening,’ said someone.
‘Intriguing,’ said another.
‘Both,’ said someone else.
The meeting continued with a report from a graduate student, John Spiegelman, who was monitoring volunteers recruited to the study by virtue of either being unusually happy, content and optimistic or continually low in spirits and pessimistic although not regarded as clinically depressed.
‘I’ve added details of another ten of each type and their DNA is being sequenced as we speak,’ said Spiegelman. ‘That’ll bring the total for the study so far to thirty of each and we have blood samples awaiting analysis should the computers come up with something interesting,’ he added.