wet overcoat, he is shock-headed like his uncle and surprisingly tall. The assembled journalists now display a terrier-like pro fessionalism and tenacity unsuspected hith erto. They surge towards him as one, aiming microphones into his face. The questions come thick and fast "Did ya know your uncle well?" asks the New York reporter. "We used to meet once a week when we were both living in Paris." "Did ya talk a lot?" "We talked about ordinary everyday things. He was very good to me, protective
of me as I lost my father when I was 11. He was very supportive." "Supportive financially?"
Edward Beckett laughs."Yes. He was very kind. We used to play billiards." "Who was better at billiards?" "He was."
The journalist representing an Indian periodical pipes up, quickly.
"What do you want us to know about your uncle?" "His work, I'd say." "Does he deserve his reputation?"
"Well, what do you think?" replies Edward Beckett. By this time he is backed up into
the doorway, the press corps seeming to encroach closer with every question. "Of course I think he does," replies the Indian journalist. "That's why I'm here. But what do you think?" "Well, I think so too. That's why I'm here. I spend a lot of my time working on the estate. I really must be off now." Quick as a long thin streak of silver, Ed ward Beckett disappears out of the door, his overcoat still wet from when he came in.