Santa Claus Did It

a Christmas detective story

Lord Sixtus Runcorn had been murdered with an axe, by Santa Claus. Lady Runcorn had seen it through the window of the library while she was walking the primrose path about the house and promptly screamed the estate to a standstill. A doctor was on hand to administer a sedative and she was now sleeping in her chambers, attended by a close friend.

Inspector Frodsham gathered everyone in the drawing room. It was a tradition among the Runcorns of Arrowfield to retire early on Christmas Eve, so the suspects were dressed in pyjamas and robes, nursing hot cocoas beneath the eyes of their unexpected guests. Lady Runcorn's statement that Santa was responsible was initially dismissed as womanly hysteria, but two pieces of information thereafter appeared to check this manly sexism. One of them was that a fluffy cotton beard had been found in the hall, the other was that a maniac had just that night escaped from the local asylum, dressed as Santa Claus.

When the question was raised of whether Runcorn had had any enemies, there were snorts all around. 'I thought you said a maniac did it?' said Lady Northwich, whose husband was pouring himself another scotch.

'I said that a maniac had escaped' clarified Frodsham, 'your father could still have been killed by someone closer to home.'

'Dressed as jolly old St Nick?' said Lord Northwich. 'At any rate, old boy, the reason for these derisive noises you've heard is that, well, old Runcorn wasn't exactly liked.'

'Even by his own family?'

'Especially his own family, Inspector' said Augustus Ellesmere, Runcorn's nephew, who'd gone to London from rural Arrowfield and to his uncle's horror become a socialist.

'I say, chum, don't give him the idea that you're Santa Claus!' laughed Archibald, son of Runcorn, who was red-faced and merry, scratching at his stubble while swigging whiskey. 'You'll have to forgive us, Inspector, we're all rather more fond of Mater than we've ever been of Pater, the miserly old...'

'Archie' warned Lady Northwich.

'And I'm not your chum.'

Frodsham waded in to quell the brewing ruckus. 'In any case,' he said, 'just as a matter of course, I'll need you all to provide statements to my officer here.'

The maniac was caught within the hour. He didn't have an axe in his possession nor any blood on his person. And he was wearing his beard. 'Do you think one of them did it?' asked Officer Hartford, referring to the family.

'If one of them happened to hear on the wireless that a man had escaped dressed as Santa, it could have inspired them to some quick thinking.' The detectives were standing bundled up on the primrose path at the spot where Lady Runcorn had seen St Nicholas deliver a punishment worse than coal in the stocking to the back of her husband's head. 'Did you happen to see Archibald scratching his face?' asked Frodsham of his officer.

With much grumbling, the suspects had been corralled into the drawing-room again while the house was searched. Only Lady Runcorn was spared, being both frail and asleep. A discreet look-in was given to her rooms, however, during which a pamphlet for the local asylum was found. 'She's a tremendous worker for charities' said the Lady's companion, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

In Archibald's room, the wireless was softly singing Christmas carols to itself. A Santa suit minus a beard was found in his wardrobe.

'Yes I own a Santa suit!' he blustered on being questioned in the dining room, 'I wear it for the orphans every year! That doesn't mean I killed the old bastard.'

'I don't think you did' said Inspector Frodsham, drawing an astonished glance from Officer Hartford. 'Let me explain. In your mother's room, we found a pamphlet for the local asylum. Her companion said that she's a tremendous worker for charities, but since you all disliked your father for his miserly ways, how was she managing to support her concerns?

'I rather think he put up with her civic spirit for the sake of appearances - just a guess, of course - but her fondness for what he might have called "lunatics" was too much. Meanwhile, years of dealing with him had finally worn her down, so she took drastic action on seeing her opportunity with the announcement of the escape.

'We only have her word that the killer was dressed as Santa Claus. She crept into your room, turned on the wireless to a low volume, stole the beard and deposited it in the hall, then took an axe and crept to the library where her husband was inspecting the baronetage or some other volume, and struck him. I'd wager if we checked the snow bordering the primrose path we'd find the axe buried there.'

'You really think my mother would have framed me for my father's murder?'

Frodsham smiled. 'I think she was naive. She aimed to frame the lunatic. But if a clever dick like me should try looking into it, a couple of surface-level clues like a beard and a switched-on wireless might detain you for a day, during which the family could throw their aristocratic weight behind setting you free before lunchtime. I'd soon be shut up and the maniac theory accepted.'

A gunshot came from outside the window. Archibald ran to the scene. Hartford aimed to restrain him but Frodsham held up an arm. 'Let him go' he said. 'It's for the best. Father dead and mother too by suicide? They'll try for as little publicity as possible. I rather prefer it when it happens like this. It does save having to dig out evidence.'