Doctor Victor Corvo took a measured sip of cold espresso from his Pyrex beaker, savoring the bitter roasted notes over the stench of decaying kelp.
The sea-cave beneath St. Dymphna’s Island had the distinctive acoustic profile of a family crypt. Wet granite arches amplified every drip of condensation into a sharp, metallic click. The air carried a noxious cocktail: iodized hydrotherapy salts, camphor, wet limestone, and the unmistakable, oily sweetness of three-hundred-and-eighty-degree liquid polyester drifting down through ventilation flues from some industrial refinery above.
“Charming establishment,” Corvo observed, adjusting his analog hearing aid. “One rarely sees Victorian institutional gothic maintained with such pathological fidelity.”
“Look at the lift car, Doctor,” Lin Mei whispered, stepping carefully behind his left elbow. “The mesh cage is constructed of three-quarter-inch cold-rolled iron. It has interior latch bolts.”
Before them, resting at the base of the vertical stone shaft, the open-mesh Hydrotherapy Dumbwaiter stood illuminated by a dim overhead amber bulb.
Inside the iron cage, the headless mannequin stood motionless.
The tailored white orderly coat covering its plaster torso was sealed under a flawless, glassy skin of five-mil clear plastic. The fabric looked crisp, starched, and permanent, entirely impervious to moisture or blood.
From the cuffs of its plastic-wrapped sleeves, two articulated brass armature hands extended, holding a heavy silver-plated kidney basin.
