CHAPTER 6Mr. Pinkerton, as close to him as he could get without actually treading very often on his heels, slipped in too, and peered out, a little below the level of Inspector Bull’s great brown shoulder, at the group still hugging the fireplace in their night-clothes and dressing gowns. Jeffrey Atwater was holding his mother’s frail transparent hands. Pamela Atwater was sitting as close to her as possible. It seemed to Mr. Pinkerton, from the space between her and the arm of the short leather sofa, that Lady Atwater had kept sliding closer to her son and that her daughter-in-law was not, as the Americans said, having any. Darcy Atwater was shrivelled down in a chair poking at the fire. It looked to Mr. Pinkerton as if he, like his mother, was trying to create as much space as possible be
