“Hell!” said Stephen.
The drawing-room door opened and Patch came in wearing pyjamas and a dressing-gown. Her hair had been lugged off her forehead by Nanny with such ferocious emphasis that her eyebrows were slightly raised. Two hard plaits hung between her shoulders. Her round face shone and she smelt of bath-powder. To Roberta she was a mere enlargement of herself at twelve and still very much of the nursery.
“Mike’s asleep,” said Patch, “and I’ve never been wider awake in my life. Please, Daddy, don’t send me back. My teeth keep chattering.”
“Oh, Patch, darling!” said Lord Charles helplessly. “I’m so sorry. Come up to the fire.”
“You can’t face the police like that, Patch,” said Frid, “You’re too fat for neglige appearances.”
“I don’t care. I’m going to sit by darling Roberta and get warm. Daddy, are the police here now?”
“Yes.”
“Where’s Mummy?”
“With Aunt Violet.”
“Was Uncle G. murdered? Nanny’s being so maddening. She won’t talk about it.”