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“That’s what I wanted to ask you about.”
John’s sister-in-law, Rachel Compton, was an accomplished young woman of twenty-four. She was also profoundly deaf. Rachel was part of the reason John had accepted the position in Edinburgh in the first place. One of the first schools for those who were deaf had been founded in the city, run by excellent teachers who’d helped develop a standardized language of signing. Rachel had proved such a capable student that she’d recently taken up a position as a teacher at a new school in London.
“Describe their signs,” John tersely said.
Braden mentally frowned at his friend’s odd tone, but then he gave a quick run through of events, and as much detail as he could remember about the mystery couple’s communication.
“So,” he said when he’d finished his description, “does that sound like the system taught at the school in Edinburgh?”
John spread his hands flat on his desk and stared at them for several long moments. “Possibly. What happened after your attackers fled?”
“My rescuers escorted me out to Cowgate. When the night watchman approached, they promptly retreated.” Braden held up a finger. “Back the way we came, I might add.”
John’s eyebrows shot up. “Back into the slums?”
“Yes.”
“Good God,” his friend muttered.
“Yes.” Braden waited for several seconds while John stared down at his hands. “So, what do you think?”
John’s gaze flickered up. “About what?”
“Was it sign language or not?”
“Obviously, since they were using it to communicate. When Braden raised his eyebrows, John grimaced. “Sorry, but you have to admit that it’s a bizarre story.”
“That’s putting it mildly, especially since they were clearly disguised and ready for trouble.”
“Or looking for it,” John said in a thoughtful tone.
Braden snorted. “And they found it.”
Again, John seemed lost in thought—and not happy ones, from the looks of it. Then he seemed to shrug it off, and he reached for the coffeepot.
“I can’t say if it was a system of signing that they invented themselves, which is entirely possible, or if it’s a standardized form. I know that’s not very helpful, but there it is.”
As Braden studied his friend’s austere expression, he was unable to shake the feeling that his friend was . . . lying? But that didn’t track. That man was all but incapable of lying, and was sometimes blunt to the point of rudeness, if necessary.
Something was definitely off.
John calmly sipped his coffee, as if they’d just been discussing a mildly interesting medical case and not a bizarre and dangerous encounter in the slums.
“I suppose it will have to remain a mystery, then,” Braden finally said.
“Apparently. By the way, I’ve got an interesting proposal for you.”
The abrupt transition confirmed that something indeed wasn’t right. But if John didn’t wish to talk about it, applying pressure would be fruitless.
For the moment, Braden decided to let it go. “A proposal about what?”
“You know of my work with the Penwith Philanthropic Foundation.”
“I do. I’ve always wondered how you fit it in on top of all your other work.”
“About the same way you fit in your free clinic on top of your other duties,” John noted.
“I don’t run two university departments, nor do I have your schedule of duties at the Infirmary. Not to mention a wife and a daughter.”
