A Series of Murders by Simon Brett

old bastard. And often have. But he didn’t voice the thought. What was the point?
    Maurice moved hastily on, not giving his client time for second thoughts about answering his question. ‘Nasty business you had in the studio the other day.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜That actress. Slippy . . .’
    â€˜Sippy. Mind you, that’s no less silly than Slippy. Yes, she had chosen to call herself Sippy Stokes. At least I assume she had chosen it. No one’s actually christened “Sippy”, are they?’
    â€˜Wouldn’t have thought so. At least she’d have been safe with Equity. No likelihood of a clash with someone else of the same name.’
    â€˜True.’
    â€˜Nasty business, though. Getting crushed by all those props falling on top of her.’
    â€˜Maurice, how is it that you know all this?’
    â€˜Like to keep my ear to the ground.’
    â€˜Yes, but how is it that you keep your ear to the ground to pick up all the gossip but never know who’s doing any casting or where there are any jobs going?’
    â€˜Ah, now, come on, Charles, be fair. Who was it who tickled up the interest from this feature-film company and the National Theatre?’
    It was wonderful, Charles reflected, how these two – probably fictitious – calls out of the blue to check availability had now metamorphosed into opportunities that Maurice had painstakingly engineered on his client’s behalf. But once again it wasn’t worth pointing out the anomaly.
    â€˜Anyway,’ his agent went on, ‘be a big compensation bill for W.E.T.’
    This seemed to be a universal first reaction to the news of Sippy Stokes’s death.
    â€˜Yes, I guess so. Incidentally, since you seem to know everything about it,’ Charles went on with heavy but wasted irony, ‘you haven’t heard any suggestions that the death was not an accident, have you?’
    â€˜What, murder or something like that, you mean?’
    â€˜Well, it’s a thought. She wasn’t the most popular person round the production.’
    â€˜No, haven’t heard anything like that. Isn’t the buzz I’m getting from my sources, anyway.’
    Not for the first time in their relationship, Charles wondered who on earth Maurice’s ‘sources’ might be. Whoever they were, they were pretty good. For relaying gossip, that is. Not for the business of finding out where the jobs were. In that they were as hopeless as Maurice Skellern himself.
    â€˜Mind you,’ the agent continued, ‘I gather the police are still investigating, so maybe something’ll come out at the inquest.’
    â€˜Well, if you do hear anything, Maurice . . .’
    â€˜I’ll let you know. And anytime, anything you want found out, so long as it’s in “the business”, you know you have only to ask.’
    â€˜Sure.’
    â€˜But,’ said Maurice, moving on with enthusiasm, ‘have you heard who’s taking over Sippy Stokes’s part?’
    There was a particular note of glee that always came into his voice when he was imparting information he felt confident his audience didn’t know, and it was there as he asked this question.
    â€˜No. No, I knew they’d recast, but I haven’t heard who it’s going to be.’
    â€˜Name “Joanne Rhymer” mean anything to you?’
    â€˜The “Rhymer” bit does, obviously. Any relation to Gwen Rhymer?’
    â€˜Daughter.’
    â€˜Ah.’ The name brought back not wholly unpleasant memories for Charles. ‘I wonder if she shares her mother’s well-known proclivities?’
    â€˜Which proclivities?’
    â€˜I was only thinking of the promiscuity, actually. I mean, in the old days Gwen Rhymer used to be called the Blue Nun.’
    â€˜Blue Nun?’
    â€˜Yes, like the wine.’
    â€˜Eh?’ Maurice was being more than usually obtuse.
    â€˜Blue Nun is recommended as the