False Step by Veronica Heley

by the new laws about smoking in restaurants, and how was she doing nowadays?
    â€˜The agency is doing well,’ said Bea. ‘Both my young assistants are worth their weight in gold, but I do miss Hamilton.’
    He nodded, patted her arm, and said, ‘He was something special.’
    â€˜Occasionally, when I meet up with something unusual, I say to myself, “I must tell him about that.” Then I remember that he’s gone and it’s as bad as it ever was. You know?’
    He sighed, felt for a packet of cigarettes, took one out, shook his head at it and returned it to the pack. ‘Can’t say I miss my old lady the same way, except when it comes to steak and kidney pudding. No one else can make it like she used to. So what do you want an old man’s company for today, eh? You wanted to tell Hamilton something, and I’m the next best thing, eh?’
    â€˜Thank you, Sylvester. Yes. I do need to consult an older, wiser head about something that’s happened. You’ve heard of Matthew Kent’s death?’
    â€˜What?’ He gaped. ‘You don’t mean Magnificent Millie? Dead? No, I don’t believe it.’
    â€˜Was he on your books?’
    â€˜It must be twenty years since he started with me, although he’s not done much lately. Dead? Are you sure? He was one of the best things ever to hit the club circuit. Never got into the big time, but always delivered. Remarkable voice, alto or bass as required, enormous repertoire. One thing that made him stand out from the rest, he wouldn’t do smut. Said it upset his stomach. We used to joke about it; I said he was a closet Christian, and he didn’t deny it. A kind man, clever with it. He wrote, too; gags for other comedians, sketches.’
    He rumbled out a laugh. ‘We used to go horse racing sometimes, not that he was a betting man, but I am …
was
. He did a sketch making fun of me talking to my bookmaker, apologizing because I’d won instead of losing as usual. Ah, me. Happy days. He’s dead, you say? When did that happen? How come I haven’t seen it in the papers?’
    â€˜Let me tell you what I know.’ She recounted the events of the previous week. Their food came, but he hardly touched his, though she did justice to hers.
    Once more Sylvester pulled out his cigarettes and this time got as far as putting one in his mouth before recalling where he was and shoving it back in his pocket. ‘Suicide? You’re sure?’
    â€˜Pills, a bottle of wine, and a note saying he was sorry.’
    He was abstracted. ‘I suppose it does make sense. He hadn’t worked much lately, stomach problems. Also, you know what they say, those who make other people laugh, are often manic depressive … though I wouldn’t have said he was. Manic depressive, I mean. Perhaps a little melancholy at times? Yes.’
    â€˜Damaris thinks it was his arthritis, making him realize he had to go into a home soon.’
    â€˜Who’s Damaris? Arthritis? It’s the devil, is arthritis. I didn’t know he had that.’ He blew out a giant sigh.
    Bea said, ‘He wasn’t that old, was he?’
    â€˜He said he couldn’t do the late nights any more, but would try to make up for the loss of income by doing scripts for radio. He’d sold a lot of gags in his time, and we thought he’d do well. I said we’d happily represent him for that – or rather, my son would, since he’s running the agency nowadays. Matthew said I ought to be taking things more easily, too, and of course he was right because the doc told me to cut down or fall down. Well, well, poor old Matt. I didn’t think I’d see him out. When’s the funeral?’
    â€˜Now that’s what I don’t know. I was contacted by his daughter—’
    Sylvester frowned. ‘Didn’t know he had any children.’
    â€˜She calls herself Damaris