Lord Der Ärzte - Gentleman Detective

The kitchen’s ancient and huge cuckoo clock ticked loudly above the dark wooden stove’s mantle; deep in thought, Lord Der Ärzte tapped at his lip in rhythm with the monstrous timepiece. The parcel in his hand had been carefully re-wrapped so its contents could not contaminate the kitchen.

When the quiet chimes of a quarter past the hour rang out into the cobbled stone galley, it was as if the sound had awakened the slumbering Lord Der Ärzte. From standing still, lost in thought, the elegant but flamingo-like man pivoted on his heel and called out loudly to his manservant.

“Banks, are you awake?”

A soft mumbling came from the dark depths of the butler's private quarters.

“Good. Be a dear and 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.”

And with that, Lord Der Ärzte bounded up the winding servant’s staircase at the back of the cavernous kitchen to his library. He was sure when unpacking his books, he’d seen a photo of the very fingers he held in his package in one of his National Geographics.

An hour later, Lady Der Ärzte, who was still busy peering out from the lounging room lace curtains, roared to her son, who sat quietly within a stack of National Geographic magazines, “Harold, a dirty little oik is ringing our front doorbell. Kindly set the dogs onto them!”

His Lordship spoke calmly but tetchily in reply, “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.”

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

His Lordship placed his notebook carefully on his side table before taking a deep breath and announcing, “Mother, Banks will deal with them in due course; please sit and take up your needlepoint.”

“Harold, as well, you know” Lady Der- Ärzte raised herself to her full height of 5’4 or 5’7, depending on her hair, “I have not needle pointed since your father passed, and if I have anything to do with it, the only needle I shall ever pick up again will be one which sews shut the mouth of the intrepid fool who suggests I take sewing back up again. Is my meaning frightfully clear young man!”

“My apologies, Madam; I did not realise you felt so strongly against the female arts.” Lord Der Ärzte bowed deeply towards his mother, showing her the respect she deserved, if not demanded.

Lady Der Ärzte turned back to the window staring out of it with neighbourly interest; a light and airy comment floated into the room, “I’d rather lick the pavement than go back to being shackled!” She smiled at the visitor’s back as he reacted to Bank’s calls to go around to the servant’s entrance. “Money buys us our freedom Harold, which is something lots of people don’t have. Yes, indeed it does, well that and your father’s death! Bless his little cotton socks.”

“Yes, Mother. Bless, his little cotton socks.”

****

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

Sargent G. Ramsey, Number 66, stood in the 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 if his Lordship’s tall and lean frame hadn’t occupied most of it.

A pained smile appeared on LORD Der Ärzte’s face. “Its 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.”

“How do you know his name if he’s unknown?” The sergeant’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion, matching his Lordship's own.

“What?”

“Well, your honour, he would be known ‘cause you just said his name.”

“No. Not in the least, Sargent Ramsey. I know the sender’s name from the package, but he is unknown personally to me.” His Lordship was not at all annoyed nor flustered by this growing confusion. In fact, he rather enjoyed his encounters with the poor as it was so interesting to watch them in their natural habitats. He felt he learnt so much about human nature, which always seemed confusing and bizarre to him.

The sergeant held his pencil in mid-air, “Why are you surprised at not knowing someone?”

His Lordship smiled, “I know everyone Sargent Ramsey who is within, let me say, my social strata, so therefore I am surprised that someone who is not within my social acquaintance is sending me personally addressed packages. The people I know send their people to my people, who then hand me their packages. I never received packages straight from people who don’t know my people.”

“Right… I think I’ll leave that one.” Sargent Ramsey wrote in his little soggy blue book, ‘He’s a toff.’ Because his Lieutenant would want details of this meeting, and with that in mind, the Sargent asked a further enquiry, “Fingers, your honour. From a Tori Marty. Can I have a look?”

“No, you may not. All shall be revealed, my good man, in good time. But it is …Mori Tarty, not the other way around.” Before continuing on with his request, his Lordship bounced on his heels which was a sure sign that some swelling emotion was being suppressed.

“Sargent, I called you here as I need to borrow your Police Department’s newly commissioned microscope so that I may observe the fingers and be assured of my decision.” Lord Der- Ärzte put his hand out, “I was hoping you would have brought it with you, considering who I am and the clarity of my request.”

“Well, Mr…”

His Lordship did a double bounce, making him look more like a vulture ready to attack than an ungainly but friendly flamingo. Sargent Ramsey No. 66 thought quickly, as a thousand years of good breading peered down its aristocratic nose at him in warning displeasure.

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

Lord Der Ärzte’s eyebrow rose to meet his hairline, “I read in the Epoch, it was called a microscope; the name means small… Sargent Ramsey.”

“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 back into the electrically lit kitchen. “Banks! How long to get the horses into the carriage and iron my suit?”

A muffled answer led his lordship to become visibly flustered and 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 bloody Zimmer Frame. That squeak is dreadfully annoying; every step you take sounds like you’ve shoved your whole shoe right up a mouse’s butt. But Banks, more importantly,” his Lordship took a steadying breath, “it will startle the horses! So, do something about it before I call the men from the ‘Elder House’ to come and ‘take care of you’ if you get my drift!”

By looking over his Lordship’s shoulder, Sargent Ramsey could see a thin, snowy-haired ancient Butler leaning his wispy frame heavily on his bronze and copper pipe walker as he painfully and decrepitly crept past.

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

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

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

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

Like a stalking flamingo, his Lordship strode over to Banks. “Really, Banks, you should be paying me!” Then fireman lifted the ancient butler over 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, his Lordship climbed the staircase with his elderly butler over one shoulder and the Zimmer frame being hoisted noisily up the stairs behind him. “Please close the door, officer; my hands are full!”

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