The Santa Klaus Murder

by Mavis Doriel Hay

  There was a conversation between them, which was overheard by others besides myself and has given rise to a good deal of speculation. What was heard—and I feel sure that no one could have heard any more than I did and that what has been added is merely the usual moss which rolling gossip always accumulates—what was actually heard, I repeat, merely bears out my view. None of the others, of course, is likely to give much weight to my opinion, but nevertheless I think I am better able than most of them to judge Eleanor’s character.

  This conversation took place in Osmond’s study on Tuesday afternoon. It must have been in the early afternoon, because after tea the room was closed to us so that the Christmas tree and its lighting arrangements could be fixed up. It was overheard because the door opening into the library had been left ajar. My brother was at that time out in the park with his grandchildren, as I happened to know, and Miss Portisham was probably attending to household matters. It seemed to me that Gordon had first of all entered the study, perhaps to look for some book—my brother always kept all the books of reference there—or to telephone. Eleanor followed him for we, who were sitting in the library, suddenly heard her voice say, “Oh, Gordon !”—rather reproachfully.

  Patricia and I, who were sitting by the fire in the library, knitting and chatting, certainly heard that much, but we didn’t catch Gordon’s reply. We heard Eleanor say again, “Oh, Gordon; it’s not suitable,” and more that was too low for us to distinguish. Gordon replied rather loudly, “Nonsense, Eleanor!” Hilda, who was also sitting in the library, writing letters, looked up suddenly, said, “There’s a draught from the study door, I think,” and went across and shut it. That is all that anyone can actually have heard, and it is quite easily explained by one who knows and thoroughly understands the people and the circumstances.

  One disadvantage of these family reunions is that the presence of so many people in the house makes it very difficult to get hold of anyone for a heart-to-heart talk. As I had so much responsibility for the marriages of Eleanor and Dittie and George, I am naturally anxious to have a quiet chat with each of them and hear about the children and give them the opportunity to unburden their hearts of any private worries.

  Patricia has no real worries, I believe. She always makes a great to-do about small things, but that is her nature. As usual, I heard how extravagant George is and how he will go on betting and always loses, and how much the children’s education is costing, but that is just what I expect to hear from Patricia. I should guess that she herself is rather an expense to George, but then he would never have endured one of those careful wives who keep an eye on the family budget and are always telling their husbands that they can’t afford this or that.

  Dittie was the one I was really worried about and particularly wanted to have a quiet talk with. When Dittie married Sir David Evershot ten years ago it seemed a most desirable match in every respect. I was immensely relieved to see her so satisfactorily settled. A year or so earlier she had been definitely attracted by a young man, Kenneth Stour, who at that time stayed a good deal with the Tollards, whose place is only ten miles from Flaxmere. I did everything in my power to persuade Dittie that marriage with Kenneth Stour would be a disaster. To begin with, he is an actor, and though one must admit that the man has a sort of flashy charm, he is, I feel sure, far too irresponsible ever to make any lasting success even of such a career as he has. I felt that he could not be depended upon in any way. His family is not well off, though they have a nice enough little place in Suffolk. They are really quite obscure people, and I have heard from friends of mine who live near them that they are most peculiar and entertain all sorts of foreigners and artists, and are entirely out of the ordinary social and sporting life of the county. They are not our sort of people at all, and Dittie could never have been happy for a year in the sort of life which Kenneth offered her. My brother did not approve of Kenneth and would never have countenanced the match.

  It was easy to see why Kenneth was so persistent in his attentions to Dittie. She was a handsome girl and, more-over, her father’s position would have been of great help to him in his career, providing the good social background which he lacked. Her money was doubtless a further attraction; I think he had little himself, and actors are always great spenders. It was more difficult to understand what Dittie saw in Kenneth, but he was one of those casual, incompetent, frivolous young men whom girls so often fall for. Dittie finally said no to him and sent him away, but although she did so of her own free will, having been persuaded that he would never make a good husband, she has never forgiven me, I fear, for the line I took. But I had my conscience to consider, as well as my duty to my brother, and—I repeat— I never for one moment thought that such a match could be a happy one.

  It was not until Dittie had been married for a couple of years to Sir David Evershot that we first heard those disturbing rumours about his family history. I did my best to prevent them from reaching my poor brother’s ears, for that could have done no good and he would certainly have blamed me for not being informed before the marriage. So far as I know, Osmond never heard the stories, for I feel sure he would have spoken to me had he done so.

  To tell the truth, I had been prevented by financial stringency from moving much in society for many years before I took up my residence at Flaxmere, and therefore was not au fait with current society gossip. In any case I might not have heard anything, for the Evershot family is not of the kind that gets itself widely talked about, and their home is on the other side of England.

  The rumour—I still do not know the truth of it—is that there was a strain of lunacy in David’s grandmother’s family, which showed itself in one of his uncles, who was sent abroad with a trusted attendant and lived and died under an assumed name in some remote corner of Europe, so that those people who had known him as a boy forgot about him and no one else ever connected him with the Evershot family. Sir David had a brother who was reported missing in the war and who is said to be still living, a hopeless lunatic in a private asylum.

  These rumours were so vague that no one would trouble about them were it not for David’s temper. We never saw the signs of this when he was courting Dittie; in fact, I feel sure that the tendency has developed since then, and I fear that Dittie’s own lack of poise cannot be the best antidote to such tendencies. It was at Christmas time five or six years ago that Patricia’s little Enid, then about three, toddled up to her Uncle David when he was writing in the library, pulled at his sleeve, and asked him to play bears with her. I suppose she shook his arm and spoilt his writing; he snapped at her crossly: “Get away, Enid!” and the child burst into tears and ran to her mother.

  Patricia reproached David—quite moderately, I thought, considering how he had frightened the child. No one noticed anything more for a few minutes. Suddenly we realized that David was on his feet, striding up and down the room. His face horrified me; his eyes were blazing and his jaw was working as if he were gnashing his teeth, only he didn’t quite gnash them. Then he burst out into what I can only describe as raving. I cannot remember all that he said, but there was something like, “So I’m not fit to touch a child! And the child knows it!” I was too shocked to take in all he said. Suddenly Dittie rushed in, looking very frightened, and she managed to get him away. He didn’t appear again that day and Dittie made apologies about him having a frightful headache which was driving him frantic, but from what I know of David he is not the man to suffer in silence and he certainly had not mentioned any headache.

  Similar scenes have occurred on a few occasions since then. Of course we all try to avoid annoying him, but it is difficult to know what will upset him; it is generally the slightest thing. There is no denying that the children are frightened of him.

  Naturally Dittie’s affairs give me some anxiety, and each Christmas I am on the watch to see how things are going. David must be difficult to live with, and Dittie is not of the character to put up with that easily. My poor
brother did not make things easier for Dittie by his reproachful way of referring to the fact that she and David had no children, which personally I believe to have been deliberate on Dittie’s part, owing to her fear that this hereditary insanity would show itself in them.

  On Christmas Eve I managed to get hold of Dittie alone for a moment. I had heard that Kenneth Stour—who has been abroad, I understand—was in England again, and I feared she might renew her undesirable connection with him and wished to warn her against such imprudence. The man is still unmarried and Dittie still feels for him—or imagines that she feels—an affection that she would certainly no longer cherish if she had married him. I thought it unwise that she should get herself talked about in this way, especially since it would displease her father gravely if it came to his ears, and of course we were all a little anxious about his will, concerning which he would never give any information.

  Dittie was very angry at what I said. She declared bitterly that she would be a different person now if she had been allowed to marry Kenneth—which may indeed be true, but not for the better. She said she could manage her own affairs and that Kenneth was the only person who sympathized with her and understood her. This alarmed me, because it is a sign of danger when a married woman says this about a man other than her husband. I pointed out that it is so much easier to sympathize with someone you do not have to live with.

  She told me—less bitterly but very unhappily, I thought—that I couldn’t understand. “The whole thing’s a mess. I can only see one way out of it, and that’s impossible—at present. Father would never understand. And then—I’m a coward.”

  Those words of Dittie’s I remember very well. The meaning is plain to me. Osmond had been worrying her again about why she had no children, and she was afraid to tell him the reason why she refused to have any.

  I urged her to discuss her troubles with me and accept my advice, but she only said, with that regrettable coarseness which I have noticed before, “Father shouldn’t have counted his grandchildren before they were hatched.”

  The conversation did not decrease my anxiety, but I could do no more. Dittie is very self-willed.

  The Christmas party was not made pleasanter by the inclusion in it of Osmond’s secretary, Miss Portisham. By treating her as one of ourselves he gave the girl ideas above her station and deceived himself into thinking her better than she is. Some unpleasant things have been said about my poor brother’s feelings for this girl, but I will not countenance this kind of gossip, though none of us could help being anxious about how much she would eventually wring out of my poor brother by her scheming and her affected pleasantness. I hope there is no need for me to point out that once this girl had achieved her avaricious purpose, it would be to her interest that my poor brother’s life should not be prolonged.

  Chapter Five

  Christmas Day

  by Grace Portisham

  It was poor Sir Osmond’s especial wish that I should take part in the family’s Christmas Day festivities at Flaxmere, and naturally, being placed as I am and not wishing to hob-nob with the servants’ hall nor to sit by myself at such a festive season, I was only too glad to conform to his wishes. Miss Jennifer is always kind, though perhaps she doesn’t quite understand my tastes, but she certainly tries to make me feel at home. She has often remarked that it must be dull for me here, which is quite true, but there are many compensations, such as the advantage of living in refined surroundings in a gentleman’s household.

  Poor Sir Osmond was always kindness itself, and it seems dreadful to write now of that Christmas Day, which I little thought at the time would have such a shocking end. We were all so anxious that it should go well, and just when it seemed to have passed off happily this terrible thing occurred. It is difficult after such a shock and when my situation, which had seemed so settled and secure, has been thrown into uncertainty, to write down quite straightforwardly the events of Christmas Day, but that is what I will try to do.

  As well as being anxious about how Sir Osmond’s plans would go off—for this is a difficult family, I think, and things do not always run quite smoothly—I was also a little worried that the family might not like me taking part in everything like one of them. Miss Jennifer’s eldest sister, Mrs. Wynford, is a very considerate lady, and her daughter, Miss Carol, always behaves quite respectfully to me; more respectfully, I might say, than she sometimes does to her aunts. But those are the manners of young people nowadays. I find Sir Osmond’s other daughters rather stiff, but I dare say they feel a bit jealous of my position here, considering it used to be their own home, though I always do my best to have things the way they would like.

  It was a funny thing that Harry Bingham had asked me, a week or so earlier, if I could manage for us both to have the day off after he had brought the family back from morning church, and he’d take me to Bristol, he said, and we’d have a real Christmas dinner at one of the hotels and some dancing.

  He thought we might even be lent the car. Well, I did turn this over in my mind, but nothing was settled, me thinking I’d better wait and see how the arrangements for Christmas Day were turning out before I asked Sir Osmond about this plan of Harry’s. It was a bit of a temptation to have some Christmas jollification on my own, and yet I wasn’t sure if I really wanted to go with Harry Bingham. He was a bit put out because I didn’t jump at the idea and agree at once. He went off in one of his moods, which I’ve noticed more often lately and which will do him no good in his career.

  Well, as it turned out, when Sir Osmond got this notion of his for a Santa Klaus I didn’t like the idea of not being at hand at the time. I was afraid something might go wrong and then Sir Osmond would be very put out. When he asked me to join the family party, I guessed that he’d be glad to have me there to help if need be, and I decided that I’d say nothing about Harry Bingham’s plan. I thought maybe we could have our outing on New Year’s Day instead, or some other time.

  I felt that Harry had already made up his mind that I wouldn’t go with him, but all the same I wasn’t looking forward to telling him that was so. However, it happened all right. On the Saturday before Christmas Harry suggested to me himself that we should put off our party. Sir Osmond had spoken to him about fitting up the Christmas-tree lights, and Cook, it seems, had said something to him about hoping he’d be there for Christmas dinner. Of course he always had his meals in the servants’ hall and seemed to enjoy their company all right, though he is really a cut above them.

  “I’ve an idea,” he said, “that Sir Osmond might not be best pleased if I turned up my nose, in a manner of speaking, at what he’s providing for us. I dare say it’d make a difference to things. And then there’s this Christmas-tree that I may have to see to, so maybe we can have our party some other time.”

  He seemed to have quite got over his disappointment and to be rather pleased with the way things had turned out. He talked about the Father Christmas arrangements, which he’d heard about from Sir Osmond when he was out driving, as if he was quite looking forward to it.

  “Santa Klaus, we’re to call the old buffer,” he said, in a joking sort of way. I knew Sir Osmond was particular about us saying Santa Klaus; said we gave it up in the War, because it was German, but we oughtn’t to mind that now and Father Christmas was just silly. The other meant Saint Nicholas, and that’s who the old man with the reindeer sleigh really was. Harry had got it all pat.

  Of course this Santa Klaus idea nearly didn’t come off at all, with the costume not turning up on Saturday nor on Monday morning. I was very upset when it didn’t arrive on Monday, having advised Sir Osmond to wait till then. He had set his heart on having this affair, and I knew he’d be very put out if the plan was spoilt. I made up my mind that if they didn’t send the costume by train on Monday I’d buy some stuff in Bristol and run something up myself, though the beard would be a bit of a puzzle. I thought I might get one in Bristol. However, there was no need,
for the costume came sure enough by the afternoon train. I went in with Harry and collected it and brought it back. The people said when I telephoned that they’d sent if off by post on Friday morning, but I dare say, with the Christmas rush, they didn’t post it at all. Anyway, the one first ordered never turned up, so it was a good thing we’d got another sent down by train.

  Christmas morning went off better than I’d expected. It was a nice fine day, though not exactly Christmassy, being quite warm for the time of year. It was Sir Osmond’s wish that all should go to church and make a good family show at this season, and the family party being nearly as many as all the rest of the congregation put together, they certainly did liven up the village church.

  There was some talk about whether the two youngest children, Mrs. Stickland’s Anne and Mrs. George Melbury’s Clare, should be left behind, but Sir Osmond said it was time they learnt to behave in church and both the nurses should go too. But it turned out that Mrs. Stickland’s new nurse was some sort of a free-thinker and had no wish to go. In fact, she was quite nasty about it, saying she was engaged to look after children and that she would do, she said, but not outrage her convictions. Sir Osmond was considerably put out and so was Mrs. Stickland, she being such a one for having all correct and doubtless would never have engaged such a woman, but was not able to pick and choose, her own nurse being called away so inconveniently. My own opinion is that Nurse should have kept her views, if views they can be called, to herself, instead of upsetting the family in such a way.