Sir Harold Der- Ärzte

“Harold, a dirty little oik is ringing our front doorbell. Kindly set the dogs onto ‘em!”

Lady Der- Ärzte’s upper-class accent rang out around the lounging room, as unappealing in its tone as a Saint Bernard’s fart is in its bouquet.

“We don’t have any dogs, mother.” His Lordship’s monotone response barely made it over the top of his paper. “Banks will deal with them.” The afternoon edition of ‘The Epoch Gazette’ was ruffled to indicate his Lordship’s level of annoyance.

Down the brass speaking tube, which connected the lounging room with the kitchens, Lady Der-Ärzte thundered, “Banks. BANKS!” in quite an unladylike manner but non the less very ladylike because she was, in fact, a Lady!

“The oik's stick is making a dreadful noise and spraying horrible dark clouds of yuckiness into my air. And,” Lady Der- Ärzte swished the lace curtain back so that with pursed lips and glaring eyes, she could look down on the working class. “A rather grubby lower-class package is being waved about! BANKS, get the thunder blast and blow it away! BANKS!”

“Oh, Mother, really!” Lord Der- Ärzte threw his paper to the floor and stood up, adjusting his smoking jacket with a manicured hand. “I will not have the neighbours talk. Banks tell them to go to the back door.”

Lord Harold Der- Ärzte was a modern aristocrat interested in many things, biology, science… money, to name a few. But he had only one activity that truly absorbed most of his time, thought and inheritance.

He wanted to be a detective!

The kitchen’s back door was wrenched open; his Lordship, who lived a very refined life, found it quite confronting to be greeted by the latest revolution in modern history and was not impressed.

“Yes!” was coldly spat out.

“Beggin ya pardon ya honour, but you’ve got a drone delivery.” The dangling machine moved a little to the right allowing his Lordship to view a little man wearing a brown postal overcoat and a black peaked hat. He stood on the paving at the bottom of the back doorstep, holding a long pole with a slightly limp brass-winged drone attached. The brass and wood machine had just enough remaining fuel to create little puffs of black smoke and whirr one of its wooden wings up and down at a furious pace for a second or two.

His Lordship sighed. “Oh, how droll a Congo package.”

The ‘Congo Basin’, a backwater company named after a rainforest, had come up with this brilliant little device. Under the right weather conditions, it could deliver small packages for a small price over small distances.

It revolutionised the postal service!

Unfortunately, the technology was still in its infancy and under development, so to make sure the system worked, more people were employed to go find the delivery drones after they were blown off course, run out of fuel, or attacked by seagulls, pigeons and robins than had been employed to remotely fly them in the first place.

“I think your mechanical dragonfly has seen better days!” His lordship eyed the untrustworthy device. “Why do you have it attached to a pole?”

“Well, the drone, it’s a flying machine, init!” The postal delivery man smiled “An’ the sender they paid for a fly’n delivery. So, we provides,” the smile became nervous and somewhat wider, “a fly’n delivery.”

“But it’s not flying, it’s broken, and you’ve tied one of its wings to your pole, so actually, it’s a pole delivery!” Lord Der- Ärzte raised a dark eyebrow over his blue eye.

“Youse gets what youse pay for with the modern postal service.” The postal worker grinned apprehensively whilst swapping the stick holding up the buzzing drone to lean on his other hip.

“Why do you call the metal dragonfly a drone?” His lordship looked down his strong nose at the swinging wooden and brass device.

“ ’Cause everyone drones on about the buzzing noise they make!”

The worker was now getting techy. He had other drones to deliver and one particularly annoying retrieval from the top of a church’s brass-covered steeple down Beggars Lane. “You needs to take your package, ya honour.”

Sighing, his Lordship tugged at the little brass clips under the drone, releasing the brown paper and string package. “Well, I certainly didn’t order anything. Banks does all my purchasing, up close and personal. Good day.” The door was unceremoniously slammed shut.

“Thank you for supporting your local post office!” Was called out loudly from in front of the closed kitchen door, followed softly by, “Ya rich pillock!”

As it was flipped from one hand to the other, the lightweight surprised his Lordship.

In a thin copper plate script, ‘Mori Tarty’ was written on the address label.

Upon opening the package, Sir Harold’s level of interest rose accordingly.

“Oh, now that is interesting… Banks, be a dear; send a runner down to the local cop shop. Ask them to send up their finest with their microscope. I need to borrow that revolutionary piece of equipment.”

An hour later, Lady Der- Ärzte, who was still busy peering out from the lounging room lace curtains, roared, “Harold, a dirty little oik is ringing our front doorbell. Kindly set the dogs onto them!”

“Oh, for goodness sake, mother, for the umpteenth time, we don’t own any dogs. We’ve never owned dogs. And after Banks lost his self-control last time, we don’t even own a cat.” His Lordship’s bellowed back tetchily; placing his notebook carefully on the table, he sighed, “Banks will deal with them.”

“Banks. BANKS!” his mother hollered, “They’re dropping their dirt on my flowers, Banks; call the police!”

“Sorry to disturb you, Mr Der- Ärzte, my name’s Sargent G. Ramsey, number 66. You called for a police officer.”

Sargent G. Ramsey stood in the afternoon pouring rain trying in vain to keep at least some part of his dark blue uniform dry. The big house’s kitchen door archway would have offered some relief, but his Lordship occupied most of it.

A pained smile appeared on Der- Ärzte’s face. “Lord Der- Ärzte, constable. “I have a little matter to wit; the police must become involved. I have been sent some fingers from an unknown assailant, Mori Tarty.”

Sargent Ramsey wrote in his little soggy blue book. “Fingers, your honour. From a Mori Arty. Can I have a look?”

“All shall be revealed, my good man, but it is Mori Tarty. I called you here as I need to borrow your microscope.” Lord Der- Ärzte put his hand out, “I was hoping you would have brought it with you, considering who I am.”

“Er, your lordship,” the Sargent looked up from his notebook, “the microscope takes up half the morgue.”

Der- Ärzte queried, “In the Epoch, it was called a microscope; the name means small.”

“Yes, your lordship, it looks at little things, but it needs a big magnifying glass to do so!” The officer put his notebook away. “Hence, I couldn’t just slip it into my pocket ‘cause my pockets aren’t elephant size.”

His lordship leant onto the kitchen door frame, sighed, and then bellowed. “Banks! How long to get the horses into the carriage and iron my suit?”

A muffled answer led his lordship to become visibly frustrated. “Really, Banks? That long? My goodness, man, you need to smarten up your attitude, or it’ll be the workhouse for you.”

His lordship turned with an aggravated smile as a shrill squeak grew in an increasing tempo behind him. “We weren’t expecting to go out today, so it will take Banks a while to get himself organised.”

After a quick eye-roll, Der- Ärzte stepped backwards into the kitchen and yelled, “Oh for goodness sake, Banks, oil your Zimmer Frame. That squeak is dreadfully annoying, but more importantly, it will startle the horses!”

By looking over his Lordship’s shoulder, Sargent Ramsey could see a thin, snowy-haired Butler stagger past, leaning heavily on his Zimmer Frame as he went.

“Is he alive?” popped out of the officer's mouth before he had time to think.

“What?” Der- Ärzte’s eyes widened as his train of thought was derailed.

Ramsey nodded towards the shuffling, mummified little man making his way up the back staircase one painfully aetheric step at a time.

“Oh, Banks! Yes, definitely. My Mother had him tested last month. She can’t be having with the undead.”

His Lordship strode over to Banks; then fireman lifted him onto his shoulder before turning to the wide-mouthed police officer. “We will meet at your station on Baker Street in an hour and a half. The game is at HAND!”

And with that, he climbed the staircase with his elderly Butler over one shoulder and the Zimmer frame being hoisted noisily up the stairs behind him.

“My good man.” Lord Der- Ärzte jumped down from the driver’s seat of his black, shining open carriage handing the reigns to a young officer who stood outside and under the blue light of Bakers Street’s police station. “Help my Butler to look after the horses.” And with that, his Lordship strode through the open station's door.

The young officer turned to look at a bundle of tartan blankets on the carriage's plush passenger seat. Within was an ancient and sleeping, mummified man. His driver’s top hat had been tied with a pink scarf tightly onto his bony head.

“Right, you are governor.” Was the officer’s only logical choice of reply.

The front counter of Baker Street Station was banged loudly by the now very excited Lord.

“You, there. You. Yes, you, man! No, there’s no need to turn your back on me. Yes, you! The one with the duck in his hand. Yes, I’m looking at you. No, don’t try to chase the duck under the table and hide; I know you’re there.”

“That’s Captain Kupfer.” The Desk Sargent smiled as a dagger-loaded death stare was sent directly to his heart by the scruffy Captain, who rose slowly from the floor. “He’s trying to deal with a postal duck.”

Lord Der- Ärzte blinked in his derailment, “A postal duck, aren’t they called drones?”

“Nah, can’t send no drones down here to Heaven’s Gate ‘cause they all get nicked as soon as enter our breathing space.”

“My, how odd!” Lord Der- Ärzte was learning new things about the lower class every day.

“How can I help you, sir?” Kupfer then addressed the desk sergeant as he walked up to the counter. “Sergeant, look after that express delivery duck; make sure she don’t assault the station’s cat… again.”

Lord Harold was totally absorbed and had to resist taking out his notebook. “Captain, I have a package of fingers in my pocket that needs to be examined, and I sent word to use your rather larger microscope.”

“You’ve got fingers in ya pocket?” The Captain reached under the counter ever so slowly for the shotgun, which the Sergeant always kept loaded and secure.

“Yes. Exactly.” Puzzlement wandered across his Lordship’s face.

“What do you plan on doing with the fingers?” Kupfer’s finger was now resting gently on the trigger. “Eat them?”

“Lord Der- Ärzte quaffed his sarcastic humour into the surrounding room. “Eat them, oh yes indeed.”

“Eat them, you say.” The gun was lifted ever so gently from its cradle.

“Well,” his Lordship continued using sarcasm as his basis for a good old laugh, “I was wondering if a nice creamed blue cheese sauce would work, but on second thought, I think I’ll just tell Banks to use a garlic butter sauce.”

The cop shop, to his Lordship’s surprise, had become deathly quiet. This was probably because everyone was pointing their thunder blusters and pistols at him.

“Ahh lovely, we meet, at last, Lord Der- Ärzte.” Lieutenant Ehrlich walked into the office space, a manila folder under her arm, “I think you can relax, Captain, men.” She patted the tense Kupfer on his tight shoulder. “Shall we go down to the morgue, your Lordship? You can show me your fingers!” She turned and summoned the two biggest constables in the room to follow her. “

The Morgue lived up to its purpose; if its purpose were to be cold, dank and horribly eerie.

“Have your people not paid your electricity bill lately?” His Lordship did not enjoy shadowy environments.

“We don’t have electricity, your Lordship. The city can’t afford all its public buildings to be warm, dry and sanitary.” Lieutenant Ehrlich held the only candle and opened the door to the station’s morgue office. “And plus, your honour, the dead don’t care if it’s light or not.”

“Yes, well,” murmured his Lordship, “I care, and I like to see, especially if there are dead people around.”

As they walked through two white swinging doors, the room lit up under the influence of gas lamps. The Lieutenant swung her dark blue uniformed arm towards the middle of the room where the large brass and glass microscope took pride in place. “Please, Lord Der- Ärzte, open your package and let’s see all those lovely fingers you’ve been sent.”

“With pleasure, madam!”

Lord Der- Ärzte withdrew the brown paper parcel and placed its contents under the microscope’s colossal lens. The three officers and his lordship climbed up the viewing platforms ladder.

“Well, this Mori Tarty has definitely cut off an impressive number of digits. How fascinating. We’ll have a fine banquet tonight!” His lordship quaffed again and was disappointed once more when no one appreciated his high-class dry wit.

The younger of the two officers took one look through the viewer and fainted on the spot.

The older officer, who’d been around for a while and consequently seen a few things, took a closer look. “You actually gonna eat this guv’nor?”

His Lordship sighed; why did the lower class find it so hard to grasp his sense of humour? “Why would I eat fingers? I can afford a much nicer cut of meat!”

The older officer smirked towards his Lieutenant, who rolled her eyes. “Well, good ta know cause if you did plan on eating 'em, I’d have a bucket right handy to puke ‘em straight back up again. These Lil buggers are poisonous mushrooms. Apart from looking like zombie’s fingers, they’re called dead Man’s Fingers for another good reason.”

“What, what, what?” Lord Der-Ärzte looked into the eyepiece. “Why would anyone send me fake finger mushrooms if their only purpose was to poison me?” He raised a quizzical eye to the amused Lieutenant. “That’s not very nice!”

“Well, your Lordship, I would, at a guess, suggest they find you annoying and want to frighten you or kill you!” The lieutenant smiled and examined the brown paper in which the deadly mushrooms were delivered.

“Oh, poppycock, Madam, I’m delightful. I’ve been told this on many occasions!”

The Lieutenant's eyebrow raised, “Really! Have you any enemies, your Lordship?”

“No, none!”

The Lieutenant pressed the issue. “Are you definitely positive no one finds you incredibly annoying?”

His Lordship firmly stated. “No! And I don’t know why people keep asking that. Now, hush, Lieutenant, I must put my great intellect to the test and hunt this hidden mysterious nemesis down.

“Well, your honour. Mori Tarty works on Lovers Lane, just off Privates Square.” The Lieutenant pointed to the package’s sender’s label.

“Oh, a clue, how quickly I zero in on solving this dastardly mystery.”

“Yes, your honour.” The lieutenant smirked. “Would you like us to call around and speak to this Tarty person?” and handed over the brown paper.

“No, Lieutenant, Banks and I will pay them a little visit!”

“Right you are, sir.”

“But one thing before I leave, Madam, one burning question which you may be able to cast light upon, helping me to move to a solution at rapid speed.”

“Yes, your Lordship.”

“Do you have a street map?

Mori Tarty, an evil genius in the making, woke up in a cellar he didn’t recognise.

“You, sir, are not a very nice person! You sent me deadly mushrooms, which is simply not done.”

The translucent blindfold was wrenched roughly from the bound man’s covered head.

“How dare you, your lordship; you can't just drag a man out of his business and tie him up against his will. There will be retribution for your arrogant behaviour!

“I think not, Mori Tarty; this will be the first last and only meeting we have. You’re just not my kind of fellow.”

His lordship wheeled Banks Zimmer Frame in front of the seated and bound Mori Tarty, then carefully slid the old Butler off his shoulder, ensuring the geriatric had both hands firmly placed on the frame handles before turning to face his foe.

“The police gave me a cavity search after I went to them with your little parcel. They wanted to be sure I wasn’t under the influence of anything magical.”

Without warning, a little nick was scratched on Mori Tarty’s face, allowing one tiny spot of blood to ooze down his cheek slowly. “Policemen have rough fingers!”

Lord Der- Ärzte turned on his heel and strode out of the cellar locking the heavy iron blots on the door behind him.

As the last blot slid into place, a low, quiet growl grew in the echoing cellar. Banks was awake. Truly awake. His red eyes glowed with hungered lust.

Lord Der- Ärzte ignored the screams that snuck out from under the heavy door. “Good old Banks, you’ll be as fit as a Malley bull once you’re all filled up again.

“Harold, what is that terrible irksome noise?” Lady Der- Ärzte bellowed down from the top of the stairs.

“Nothing, Mother, just feeding Banks.”

“Well, it’s about time. He was looking like a dried-out sultana. It’s very wrong of you to let him go so long between good meals.”

“Yes, Mother.”