Black Ice

CHAPTER THREE

The journey to Waterloo seemed shorter than Sherlock remembered. Crowe was on good form all the way, making deductions about the various people who came and went in their carriage and on the stations they passed. Sometimes, just to tease Sherlock, he engaged the people in conversation and got them to talk about the things he’d already told Sherlock. The earlier discomfort between them over the subject of Rufus Stone seemed to have vanished.

When the train had heaved its way into Waterloo and slowed to a halt at the platform, the two of them descended and walked through the station to find a hansom cab.

Sherlock had experienced the bustle of Waterloo Station before, but as he and Amyus Crowe made their way through a particularly dense crowd of men in top hats he found himself imagining that he was moving through a grim landscape of industrial chimneys rising up from dark factories. The steam from the trains that drifted around the station just made the comparison worse. Irritated, he tried to put the image to one side. He didn’t often get flashes of imagination like that, and he didn’t like it when he did. There was no logical way to get from top hats to smoky industrial landscapes. That was a poetic comparison, not an analytical one. Amyus Crowe would not approve.

Although Rufus Stone probably would. The thought made him pause uncomfortably.

Crowe hailed a hansom cab outside the station. They had no luggage, as they were just up for the day, so they climbed inside and set off.

The cab was little more than a box on two wheels, with the driver sitting on top and the horse attached to the front with a leather harness and reins. It jerked and rattled terribly on London’s bumpy roads.

‘The Diogenes Club,’ Crowe called up to the driver.

‘Where’s that, guv?’ the man called back.

‘Head for the Admiralty,’ Crowe shouted. ‘Ah’ll direct you from there.’ Settling back down in his seat as the cab started off, he said conversationally: ‘The club’s only been in existence for a year or so. Seems your brother was one of the founders, or so he tells me. Named after the Greek philosopher Diogenes of Sinope. Diogenes was one of the founders of the Cynic philosophy, or Cynicism, as it has become known.’

‘I’ve heard the word “cynics”,’ Sherlock said, ‘but I’m not exactly sure what it means.’

‘Cynics suggested that the purpose of life was to live a life of virtue in agreement with nature, which meant in practice rejecting all conventional desires for wealth, power, health and fame, and living a simple life free from all possessions. Can’t fault them for that, although it does more or less rule out any industrial progress in a society. The Cynics also believed that the world belonged equally to everyone, and that suffering was caused by false judgements of what was valuable and by the worthless customs and conventions which surrounded society.’ He paused. ‘Not sure how that applies to your brother, or the club, but you ought to know that the Diogenes Club has one very strict rule. Nobody is allowed to talk on the premises. Not one word. The only exception is the Strangers Room, which is where ah assume your brother will be meetin’ us. If not, we’re in for an uncomfortable day.’

The cab clattered across Westminister Bridge, and Sherlock’s attention was caught by the various boats being rowed along or across the dirty brown mass of the water. ‘Were Diogenes and Plato alive at the same time?’ he asked, remembering the book that his brother had given him as a gift when he sailed to America – Plato’s The Republic.

‘They were,’ Crowe answered, ‘and they didn’t get on. Ah’ll tell you the story sometime.’

At the north side of the river the cab turned left, then right on to a broad, tree-lined avenue. At the top of the avenue, Sherlock recognized Trafalgar Square, with its memorial to Lord Nelson. He’d seen that the last time he’d come to London.

A few seconds later, the carriage stopped. The two of them descended to the pavement, and Crowe paid the driver the few pence fare.

They were still on the broad, tree-lined avenue, but at the top, where it curved round to form another road. A small door was set into a wall ahead of them. A brass plaque by the side of the door read The Diogenes Club in copperplate script.

Crowe rapped on the door with the head of his cane. A few moments later, it swung open. He led the way in, ducking his head to miss the low lintel. Sherlock followed.

They were standing in a narrow hall with oak-panelled walls and a marble floor. A stairway led up to the first floor, and an open door to one side gave access to what looked like a large room full of green leather armchairs. The silence was so oppressive that Sherlock could almost feel it pressing on his ears. The ticking of a clock somewhere in the shadows echoed around the hall.

The man who had opened the door was small and weaselly. He was dressed immaculately in a blue footman’s uniform and had the look of a former soldier. Sherlock was no expert, but the man held himself rigidly upright, and his boots were shined to a degree where Sherlock could probably have seen his face in them. Crowe handed him a card. He glanced at it, nodded, and then gestured to Crowe and Sherlock to follow him through the room that led off the hall, the room full of green armchairs. The armchairs were occupied by men reading newspapers, and the footman led a winding course to a door on the far side of the room. He knocked on the door.

A few people lifted their heads from their newspapers and glared at the source of the noise.

Sherlock listened, but heard no response. He mentally kicked himself: if nobody was allowed to speak in the club then he could hardly expect anyone to call ‘Enter!’ The footman was obviously waiting for the door to be opened.

Nothing happened. The footman knocked again.

This time there was a scuffle from inside the room. Something thudded against the door. A bolt was thrown, and the door opened.

Mycroft Holmes stood in the doorway, blocking the room beyond with his large body. He looked confused.

He brought his hand up, as if to touch his forehead, and he seemed just as surprised as Sherlock, Crowe and the footman to find that he was holding a knife.

Mycroft stared at the knife as if he had never seen it before. He turned his head to look back into the room. As he did so, he stepped sideways, and Sherlock could see past him.

The room was lined with wood panelling, like the rest of the club, but it had no windows. In the centre of the room was a large table. Upholstered chairs were arranged symmetrically around it.

A man sat in one of the chairs. Judging by the spreading bloodstain on his shirt, and the way his sightless eyes stared at the chandelier hanging from the high ceiling, he was dead.

‘Mycroft?’ Sherlock said.

A ripple of surprise ran round the club room, followed by hisses of disapproval at his flagrant breaking of the rules, but he didn’t care. He just wanted to know what had happened.

The footman backed away, eyes wide. Crowe snapped his fingers at the man, then mimed blowing a whistle. The footman nodded, turned, and ran off.

Crowe grabbed Sherlock’s arm and pulled him into the Strangers Room, shutting the door behind them. Sherlock noticed that the back of the door was heavily padded, presumably to keep the noise of conversation from drifting into the club room. Mycroft backed away, his eyes still confused, his hand still holding the knife.

‘I don’t… understand,’ he said hesitantly.

‘Mister Holmes,’ Crowe snapped, you need to concentrate. What happened? Tell us everything.’

‘I was… waiting for you,’ Mycroft replied. His voice gained strength as he spoke. ‘I had predicted your time of arrival based on the train timetable and the usual traffic between Waterloo Station and the club at this time of day. There was a knock on the door. The footman – Brinnell – delivered a card on a tray. Apparently a man wanted to see me. I didn’t know who he was, and I was about to send him away when I noticed that some words had been scrawled on the back of the card. They were words that… that I had come into contact with during the course of my employment. Words of significance. I indicated to Brinnell that he should bring the man here, to the Strangers Room.’

He paused, frowning, as if he was attempting to remember something difficult.

‘I waited here,’ he continued. ‘There was a knock on the door. Rather than call out, I went to the door to open it. That is the custom, here in the Diogenes Club. It avoids undue speech, which most members find unpleasant. A man was standing outside -’

‘That man?’ Crowe asked, indicating the body slumped in the chair.

‘Yes,’ Mycroft said, wincing. ‘That is the man. I gestured to him to come in. He did so. I shut the door behind him, and…’

He trailed off. His hand – the one not holding the knife – rose as if he wanted to touch something on his head. ‘That’s all I remember until I heard another knock on the door. I thought I was having one of those moments that the French call deja vu, where you believe that something is happening to you that has happened before. I opened the door, expecting to find Brinnell and the visitor outside, but it was you. Both of you. I was confused. I turned round, expecting to find the visitor behind me.’ Mycroft indicated the dead body in the chair. ‘I did,’ he continued, a touch of the dryness with which Sherlock was so familiar creeping back into his tone, ‘but not in the manner I expected.’

‘Mister Holmes,’ Crowe said, ‘for the sake of completeness, and because it is undoubtedly a question the police will ask, did you kill that man?’

‘I have no recollection of killing that man,’ Mycroft said carefully.

‘Ah would suggest that you give a simple “no” next time the question is asked. Not that it will do you much good.’ Crowe sighed. ‘Do you know a good solicitor?’

‘The Diogenes retains one,’ Mycroft replied. ‘Brinnell can give you the man’s details.’

‘Then whatever happens in the near future, rest assured that we will engage the Diogenes’ solicitor and we will work to get you released.’

Mycroft turned to look at the body. ‘That may be difficult,’ he said painfully. ‘There is precious little evidence, and what little there is seems to implicate me.’

‘You did not kill him,’ Sherlock said firmly. ‘I don’t know much about what happened in here, but I know that.’

Mycroft smiled slightly, and patted Sherlock on the shoulder. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I think I needed to hear that.’

A commotion outside alerted them to the arrival of the police.

Ah suggest you put the knife on the table,’ Crowe said. ‘It never looks good to be holdin’ a weapon when the police arrive.’

Mycroft stepped towards the table and set the knife down on it just as the door burst open, and a group of blue-uniformed men entered. Crowe stepped forward, covering Mycroft’s movement.

‘There’s been a murder,’ he said. ‘The body is over by the table, as is the knife that was probably used in the execution of the crime.’

‘And who are you?’ the lead constable asked.

‘My name is Amyus Crowe. Who are you?’

‘A foreign gentleman,’ the policeman remarked, looking pointedly at his companions. ‘Were you here when the crime was committed?’

‘Ah asked you for your name,’ Crowe said, voice civil but with an edge of iron.

‘I am Sergeant Coleman,’ the policeman said, drawing himself up. ‘Now perhaps you could answer my question.’ He paused. ‘Sir.’

‘Ah was outside the door,’ Crowe said, ‘with the young man there. The footman can bear that out.’

‘And what is the young man’s name?’

‘Sherlock Holmes,’ Sherlock replied.

‘Then who was in the room?’ the sergeant pressed.

Crowe hesitated, wincing slightly. Ah believe this gentleman was in the room.’ He indicated Mycroft with a nod of his head.

The sergeant stepped forward. ‘Is this true, sir?’ he asked Mycroft.

Mycroft nodded. ‘I was in the room,’ he said clearly.

‘What is your name?’

‘Mycroft Siger Holmes.’

‘And did you kill this man, sir?’

‘I did not kill this man.’

Sherlock noticed Crowe’s lips twitch slightly at the firmness in Mycroft’s voice. The sergeant looked taken aback.

‘I’m afraid, sir, that I must place you under arrest. You will be taken to Scotland Yard, where you will be questioned under oath.’ He glanced over at the corpse, then towards one of the constables. ‘Send someone for the pathologist. Old Murdoch is on duty today. Get him to come and fetch the body. And bring that knife. We’ll be showing it to the judge, all right.’

The words were like the tolling of some huge, discordant bell to Sherlock’s ears. He watched in horror as Mycroft was taken by the shoulder and manoeuvred out of the Strangers Room, through the club room and into the hall. One of the constables took the knife gingerly by the handle and carried it away.

‘Mister Crowe…’ Sherlock started.

‘No time,’ Crowe snapped. Ah understand you’re emotional. That’s to be expected. Trouble is, if we’re to clear your brother’s name and save him from jail then we need to move fast, and we need to move with complete precision and accuracy. Emotion, right now, will slow us down an’ cloud our judgement. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

‘Yes,’ Sherlock breathed.

‘Suppress whatever grief and shock you’re feelin’. Imagine that you’re wrappin’ it up in a blanket, tyin’ it tight and stowin’ it in the back of your mind. Ah ain’t askin’ you to forget about it forever, just for now. You can retrieve those emotions later, when it’s safe, an’ wrap yourself in them for as long as you want. Just not now.’

‘Yes. All right.’ Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to do what Crowe was suggesting. He tried picturing his roiling mixture of emotions as a fiery ball hanging inside his mind, and then he tried to imagine a fireproof cloth as black as night wrapping itself round that fiery ball. Ropes and chains emerged from the darkness and looped around the cloth, drawing tight until the ball was completely swaddled. And then he imagined it sinking down through the shadows until it sat on the floor, in a dusty cupboard, at the back of his mind. And then he closed the door.

He opened his eyes and took a breath. He felt better. Less panicky. He knew the feelings were there, in the cupboard, but he didn’t feel them. He could get them out whenever he wanted to, but right now he wasn’t sure if he would ever want to.

‘You all right?’

‘I’m fine. What do we need to do?’

‘We need to search the body, and we need to search the room. All do the first thing, you do the second.’

‘All right.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Why did the police leave us alone in here with the… the body?’

Crowe glowered. ‘Trouble with the crime-fightin’ profession is that they like nice simple answers. They got two people in a locked room, one of them dead an’ the other one not. To them, the answer is simple, an’ ah must admit if I didn’t know your brother like I do then it would look just as simple to me. So as far as they’re concerned, they’ve got their man. The knife is more like a trophy to them – they can wave it around at the trial an’ scare the jury. The corpse – well, he’s dead, an’ he ain’t goin’ nowhere until the pathologist arrives to cart him away. An’ that should give us enough time to see what they might have picked up, if they’d bothered lookin’. Now, enough talkin’. Get to work!’

While Crowe busied himself at the table, Sherlock started in one corner of the room and methodically examined every inch. He didn’t know what he was looking for, so he looked for anything out of the ordinary. He checked the panelled walls and the pictures hanging from them, and he even pulled one of the chairs away from the table and moved it over to the wall so that he could climb on it and inspect the picture rails that ran along the top just underneath the ceiling. Then he threw himself to the ground and checked the carpet for things that might have dropped from someone’s hand or pocket and got caught between the fibres.

‘Anythin’?’ Crowe called after a while.

‘Not so far,’ he said dejectedly.

He kept moving around the room, letting his eyes rove everywhere. As he got to the corner of the table he noticed something on the floor beneath it: a small leather case, left in the shadow of the table leg as if someone wanted to put it quickly out of the way.

‘I’ve got something,’ he announced, pulling the case out and putting it on the table.

Crowe crossed from the body to see what had been found. He examined it critically.

‘Basic wooden construction, leather facing, brass hinges, brass lock and brass feet,’ he murmured. ‘Nothin’ special or out of the ordinary. No scuff marks on the feet an’ no wear on the handle, indicatin’ that it’s new. Ah, look at the handle there – can you see that thread tied around it? Probably where the price label was attached. This man, or someone else, pulled the price off but forgot about the thread. That was a mistake.’ He reached for the case and clicked the locks. ‘Unlocked, which is good for us.’ He opened it so that he and Sherlock could see inside.

The case was lined with a red material, probably silk or satin. The material was heavily padded so that anything in the case would have been pressed between the two sides when the case was closed.

‘Two depressions in the padding, see?’ Crowe pointed to two areas where the padding was pressed in, suggesting that the case had contained two objects, but Sherlock had already noticed them. ‘Too diffuse to tell us what the shapes were, although they appear to be different.’

‘The padding around one of the depressions is a different colour,’ Sherlock pointed out. ‘It’s slightly darker.’

‘Could just be wear,’ Crowe muttered.

‘But the case is new – just bought.’

‘Good point.’ Crowe reached out to touch the surface of the material. ‘It’s slightly damp. That’s odd. Something wet was in here – maybe a bottle containing a liquid that partially leaked out.’

Sherlock looked around the room. ‘A bottle of what?’

‘Not sure yet. Let’s just file the information away for later.’ He closed the lid of the case and looked around the room. ‘What about those panels on the wall – any hidden doors? Any sign that there might be a window under there? Someone had to get in and out of this room without being seen.’

‘I thought of that, but there’s no sign of hinges or seams. I knocked on the walls, but none of them sound hollow.’

‘All right.’

‘Do you want to check?’

‘Why should ah?’ Crowe sounded surprised. ‘You’ve got a good set of eyes, an’ a good mind behind them. What about the carpet?’

‘Looks like it gets cleaned every day, and I can’t see anything that might have dropped on it today.’ ‘So,’ Crowe said grimly ‘there’s nothin’.’ ‘Except…’ Sherlock started. ‘Except what?’

‘Except there’s a damp patch on the carpet just here. And it’s cold.’

Crowe turned and stared at Sherlock. ‘A what?’ A damp patch. Maybe someone spilt a glass of water.’ Crowe raised his eyebrows. ‘Interestin’. We have a case that might have contained a bottle of somethin’, and we have a damp patch where that bottle might have spilt, but what we don’t have is the bottle itself, an’ whatever else was in there with the bottle. It’s an anomaly, and anomalies are what we need right now. Things that just don’t fit.’

Sherlock wasn’t sure. ‘So what does it mean?’ The big man shrugged. Ah don’t know yet, but ah’m filing it away for later consideration, an’ ah suggest you do the same. Now, keep lookin’. Just cos you found one thing, don’t mean there ain’t more things to find.’

Sherlock spent the next ten minutes searching the rest of the room, but when he got back to the corner where he had started, he stopped. Amyus Crowe appeared to have finished with the corpse as well: he was standing back and looking around the room.

‘Did you find anything?’ Sherlock asked. Crowe shrugged. ‘Some minor points of interest. This man wasn’t well, for a start. He’d lost a lot of weight recently, an’ he was under the care of a physician. I found this -’ he said, holding up a small glass bottle with what looked like a spring-loaded button on the top. ‘I think it’s a medicine of some kind, although I’ll need to get it checked out.’

‘May I look?’ Sherlock asked. Crowe handed the bottle across. It was about the size of Sherlock’s thumb. The sprung button on the top looked as if it might be used to pump something out of the bottle in a fine spray through a small nozzle on the side. Sherlock sniffed at the nozzle, and recoiled. There was something familiar about that bitter smell, but he couldn’t quite remember what.

‘His clothes make him look like a gentleman,’ Crowe continued, ‘but the tattoos on his arms suggest he was anything but.’

Sherlock slipped the glass vial into his pocket and crossed to stand beside Crowe. The man was thin, and tiny thread veins were noticeable in his cheeks. His head was thrown back, and he was staring at the ceiling with bulging and bloodshot eyes. His skin was white, but Sherlock wasn’t sure if it was naturally like that or if it was a result of his recent death.

The white front of his shirt was now completely maroon with drying blood. A tear had been made around the level of his heart: the point where the blade had penetrated, Sherlock thought grimly.

But who had wielded the blade?

He leaned closer. There was something about that tear that had caught his attention, but he wasn’t sure what it was.

‘Spotted something?’ Crowe asked.

Sherlock hesitated. ‘I was just trying to remember what the knife looked like – the one in Mycroft’s hand.’

‘Got to confess, I never got a clear look at it,’ Crowe admitted.

‘I did,’ Sherlock said. ‘It was thin, like a letter opener, but the tear in this shirt is quite big. Bigger than the knife that I remember seeing.’

‘Interestin’,’ Crowe mused. ‘I took a quick look at the wound as well. That’s quite a size. Suggested to me that the knife had a broad blade, but if you’re sayin’ the knife that was taken away had a narrow blade… well, that’s another anomaly that needs explainin’.’

‘Could the man have struggled?’ Sherlock asked. ‘Could that have caused the blade to tear a larger hole in his shirt and… and his skin?’

‘Possible.’ Crowe thought for a moment. ‘That’s the kind of thing we might need to conduct an experiment to verify.’

‘What?’ Sherlock exclaimed. ‘You mean stab someone else, and hope they struggle?’

Crowe laughed. ‘No, I mean we get a slaughtered pig from somewhere, dress it in a shirt, an’ then one of us stabs it with a paperknife while the other one wiggles it about a bit. See if we can replicate the tear and the wound on this poor guy. Guessin’ only takes us so far – we need evidence more than anythin’.’ He gestured towards the door. ‘Go an’ see if you can find that footman – Brinnell. Bring him back here. I’ve got some questions I want to put to him.’

Sherlock made his way out to the club room. The occupants glanced up at him with irritation as he passed – they’d seen the police, and they obviously knew that something out of the ordinary was happening, but they seemed determined to pretend that everything was as calm as usual within the club’s precincts. Sherlock tried to make himself as small and as quiet as possible. He had to admit, as he wound his way through the plush green armchairs, he couldn’t work out what it was his brother saw in this club. It was the most boring place he’d ever been in – murder excepted, and he presumed that the Diogenes Club was not in the habit of playing host to murder.

He found Brinnell in the hall. The footman was looking worried. Sherlock was about to ask him to come back to the Strangers Room when Brinnell raised a finger to his lips and shushed him. Sherlock pointed at Brinnell, then back towards the Strangers Room. Brinnell nodded. He walked past Sherlock, past the stairs to a door that probably led back to the servants’ area. Within a few moments he was back with another liveried footman, this one older and balder. Leaving the man in the hall presumably to stand guard and prevent strangers from wandering in and making a noise, Brinnell followed Sherlock back through the club room.

Crowe was standing exactly where Sherlock had left him.

‘Appreciate you makin’ time to talk to us,’ he said to the footman as Sherlock closed the door. ‘I understand you’ve got a lot on right now, what with the murder and all.’

‘It’s a shocking thing,’ Brinnell said. ‘Shocking it is.’ He glanced over at the corpse. ‘And it’s us that’s got to clear it up, as well.’

‘You escorted the gentleman here to the Strangers Room, didn’t you?’

‘I did, sir. That I did.’

‘How did he approach you?’

Brinnell thought for a moment. ‘He came in through the front door, just like you gentlemen did. He handed me a card. On the back of the card he’d written the name of Mister Holmes, and another few words that I didn’t rightly recognize.’

‘What were those words?’

Brinnell frowned, struggling to remember. ‘I think it was the name of another club,’ he said, ‘but I can’t say I remember which one it was. I thought for a moment the gentleman had come to the wrong place, until I saw Mr Holmes’s name written on the back.’

Another club. For some reason the man’s words grabbed Sherlock’s attention. Another club… He filed the thought away until he could consider it in more detail.

‘So he obviously knew the workings of the Diogenes Club,’ Crowe pointed out. ‘He knew enough not to speak.’

‘I suppose he did, sir. I suppose so.’

‘What did you do then?’

‘I put the card on a tray and took it to Mister Holmes. He was waiting in here already. He looked irritable, like he wasn’t expecting this man, but someone else. Irritable, that’s how he looked. I think he was about to send the bloke away, but he turned the card over and read what was on the back. He seemed to change his mind and he said: “Bring the fellow in, Brinnell.”’ So I came back, fetched the bloke and brought him through.’

‘How long was that before we turned up?’

The footman thought for a moment. Couldn’t have been no longer than five minutes,’ he said eventually. ‘Or maybe ten.’

‘Any noise or disturbance?’

‘Not a thing, sir.’

Crowe nodded. And what did you think of this visitor, then? What was your opinion?’

Brinnell grimaced. ‘Not my place to say, sir,’ he muttered.

Crowe held his hand up. A bright half-crown flashed between his fingers. ‘I value your opinion,’ he said. ‘Nobody else will know – just us.’

Brinnell considered for a moment. ‘No need for that,’ he said finally. ‘I like Mister Holmes. He’s always been good to me. Been good to me, he has. If you’re trying to help him, then that’s all right with me.’

‘Good man,’ Crowe said. The half-crown vanished in his large hand.

‘I thought the bloke who came visiting was a little overdressed for his station in life, if you know what I mean,’ he said.

‘Ah know exactly what you mean, and ah ’ppreciate your honesty.’

‘Was the man carrying anything?’ Sherlock asked suddenly.

Amyus Crowe nodded. ‘Good question,’ he rumbled.

Brinnell frowned, trying to remember. ‘I believe he did have a small case. I recall trying to take it off him to put in the cloakroom, but he clutched it to him as if it were valuable. I presumed he needed it for the meeting with Mister Holmes.’

‘Very instructive,’ Crowe said.

The door burst back open, and one of the constables who had been there before entered. ‘Sergeant Coleman wants you to come down to Scotland Yard and give a statement,’ he said.

‘Glad to,’ Crowe replied. ‘I’d be interested to see how his investigation is gettin’ on.’

‘Investigation?’ the constable repeated, smiling. ‘No need of that. Got our man bang to rights, we did.’

The constable ushered them out of the Strangers Room and through the club room. As they left, Brinnell looked as if he wanted to say something, but instead he marched across and handed Sherlock a scrap of paper. When he looked at it Sherlock saw the words: Orville Jenkinson, Solicitor and an address. This must be the solicitor that Mycroft had mentioned – the one retained by the Diogenes Club. He smiled at Brinnell, and nodded his thanks.

Out in the open air, as the constable struck out along the pavement, Sherlock turned to Amyus Crowe and asked the question that had been burning in his brain for the past hour. ‘Mister Crowe – if we can’t prove my brother innocent, what happens?’

‘There’s a trial,’ Crowe said grimly, ‘an’ then, if he’s found guilty, ah’m afraid they hang him by the neck until he is dead.’