Inspector Rumblepants and the Case of the Golden Haggis (7 page)

T
he Scottish Corporal marched smartly to a small wooden door. He pointed to a musty room filled with crates. “Sir, ye will be sleeping in here,” he shouted loudly at Sergeant Widebottom, even though they were only a few feet apart in the narrow corridor. “Yer dinner is between eight and eight-oh-five. It's down the hall with the privates,” he instructed. “Make sure ye bring your own plate, knife, and fork. Otherwise, ye will be burning yer fingers when eating yer dinner.”

With a sharp turn, the Corporal spun around and marched briskly down the narrow hallway. His legs were a blur as he sped through the castle. Inspector Rumblepants trailed after him, having to trot to keep up.

Sergeant Widebottom peered into his tiny room and squeezed himself through the narrow door. He put his suitcase on a narrow metal bed. The bed had only a thin, straw-filled mattress and grimy grey blanket. The sun was setting, and the narrow windows with their dust-covered glass panes gave a cozy, orange glow to the room. On the granite wall hung a tiny candle holder with a bit of a wick, which Sergeant Widebottom lit as he unpacked his bag.

He started whistling to himself happily as he laid out his clothes and checked to see whether his new invention, the retractable police truncheon, worked properly. He pressed a small button on the bottom of the truncheon, and it suddenly extended out and knocked over a wooden box at the other end of the room with a crash. The Sergeant smiled, tidied up the mess, and then continued to unpack his suitcase, humming.

Further within the castle, Inspector Rumblepants was struggling to keep up as the Corporal clicked briskly down corridors, up stairwells, and through banquet halls, until eventually they reached a very pleasant room high within the castle. A large window overlooked the fields below, and the Inspector dropped his suitcase on a large, soft bed.

“Sir, ye can have dinner whenever ye like. Just pull that cord over there on the wall,” he said, pointing to a large rope hanging from the ceiling. “The maid will see what you want and bring it for ye,” he stated.

He tapped the clock face of an ancient grandfather clock by the door. “The Colonel has invited ye and that missy for dinner at eight, if ye be so inclined.”

He spun around so sharply that he missed the door and walked into the wall. He stumbled back and almost fell over, shook his head several times, and then walked more slowly out through the bedroom doorway, clutching his head. “Blooming heck, that hurt,” he muttered to himself. “That will leave a mark.”

Inspector Rumblepants looked around his room. “A bit small,” he said to himself. He unpacked his clothes into a dresser and put his suit in a large cupboard. The maid had already lit the gas lights and fluffed up the huge, soft pillows.

“I wonder where I could get a spot of tea,” he asked himself as he sat in a tall chair. He started to read the latest Inspector Sherlock Holmes article, called, “How to Foil Dastardly Plans Without Breaking a Sweat . . . and Finish in Time for Tea.” Without looking up from his volume, he pulled the cord. He heard a tinkling sound next door. He turned a page as he waited for his tea to be brought to him.

That night the Colonel, Agent Amber, and Inspector Rumblepants had a delightful dinner of steak, peas, and roasted potatoes at a huge oak table in the great hall of the castle, served by uniformed stewards. Afterward they ate several slices of chocolate cake, washed down with hot steaming tea. The Colonel had been stationed in Stirling Castle for several years, and he told them that they had searched the land for one hundred miles around the castle to find the Golden Haggis, but with no success. He suspected that a traitor had helped the Thief, and he was worried that someone might be watching their investigation.

As the evening progressed, they discussed clues and theories, hoping to discover some ideas that would lead them to solving the mystery. Outside, the sun had set across the grassy farms, as rain clouds swept in again from the mountains. Eventually, they said goodnight for the evening and headed to their bedrooms. Inspector Rumblepants spent the next two hours trying to find his way back to his room, having forgotten the way. He even walked past the same painting three times.

In another part of the castle, Sergeant Widebottom had arrived for his dinner at six minutes past eight, only to find that all the food had been eaten. The cooks had left, and the kitchen was closed and locked for the night.

The Corporal, who had showed Widebottom to his room, was sitting, drinking a steaming cup of tea, in the corner of the small dining room. He was reading a newspaper. He looked up and smiled. Tapping on a web-covered grandfather clock with a dirty finger, he said, “Ye a minute late. Ye had plenty of time and will have to wait for breakfast now, between six and six-oh-four.” He went back to reading his newspaper, then looked up and added, “And don't be late.”

Sergeant Widebottom sighed and looked hungrily around the room for a minute before deciding to head down to the local town for a bite to eat. He grabbed his police hat and headed for the main gate. After a few minutes of walking, he had passed the guardhouse and was strolling down the winding road into the town. Pulling his collar up against the rain that started to drizzle from the darkening sky, he strolled through winding streets lit by gas lamps until he found a small pub with a tiny, dark door. The name of the pub was the Spiky Thistle. Bending low to walk through the door, he struggled through a pack of small, wiry men until he arrived at the bar, his cloak and his hair wet.

He smiled at the woman barkeep. “Do you do pie and chips, luv?” he asked, looking around the crowded bar. The place was full of old men and small dogs sleeping under their chairs. In the corner there was a large fireplace, filling the room with a flickering red glow.

The barkeep smiled, showing uneven brown teeth with large gaps at the front. “We have haggis pie, haggis stew, haggis sausage, haggis curry, haggis on bread, haggis loaf, haggis soup, or haggis with haggis,” croaked the old woman, wiping a mug with her dirty apron. “We also have haggis on toast,” she added.

“Haggis with haggis sounds great,” he smiled, finding himself a table to read his newspaper as his dinner was cooked.

A few minutes later, an old man tapped the Sergeant on the shoulder. “Ye mind if I sit with ye?” he asked.

“Of course not. Please sit down,” smiled the Sergeant politely, putting his newspaper away and taking a sip of his hot steaming tea.

The old man looked around the crowded bar suspiciously before pulling out a seat across from Sergeant Widebottom.

“Ye are here because of the Golden Haggis, are ye not?” he asked quietly, just loud enough for him to be barely heard by Widebottom above the babble of people speaking and laughing in the pub.

“Well, I am having haggis for dinner,” whispered back the Sergeant. “I hear it's like a small dog, but it has one set of legs shorter than the others so it doesn't fall down when running around the mountains.”

“No, ye are here because of the stolen Golden Haggis,” whispered the mysterious old man. “And that's a silly idea about the real haggis. What would happen when it wants to go the other way? It would fall over, wouldn't it, and roll down the hill?”

Sergeant Widebottom scratched his head. “But that is a secret! No one is supposed to know that the Golden Haggis was stolen several days ago from Stirling Castle by a mysterious Thief who got past all of the defenses at midnight,” he stated, frowning.

“As a secret agent, I know everything,” stated the stranger proudly, looking around the crowded pub again suspiciously to see if anyone was listening to the two of them speaking.

“Who stole the Golden Haggis, then?” asked Sergeant Widebottom. He took out a notebook eagerly, thinking of how impressed the Inspector would be if he came back having solved the mystery.

“Well, I don't know that,” said the stranger, puzzled.

“Where is it now, then?” asked the Sergeant, licking the tip of his pencil, ready to write down all the facts.

“Well, I don't know that either,” answered the secret agent, frowning.

“Do you know why it was stolen?” asked Sergeant Widebottom, half hopefully, lowering his pencil.

“Ahh . . . not really,” admitted the agent. “I suppose when I told you that I knew everything, I was sort of exaggerating. I do know a lot of interesting things though—and some secrets.” The Scottish secret agent smiled brightly.

Sergeant Widebottom leaned forward and whispered, “What type of secret agent are you?”

The old man said quietly, “I am from the Scottish Secret Service. We usually only work weekends and a few days per week. My full-time job is as a butcher—so the Secret Service work is more of a hobby, really.”

Sergeant Widebottom was confused. “The Secret Service work is just a part-time job?” he asked. “Why are you not doing it all the time?”

“Because not much happens here in Scotland. The top crime is that people steal sheep. With few other crimes, it gets a bit boring only to be a secret agent,” answered the old man, looking embarrassed. “This theft is the most interesting thing to happen in the last twenty years,” he added with a smile. “We secret agents are all very excited about it.”

The Sergeant asked, “Can you suggest someone we should speak to next?”

“Ah yes,” he said. “You should speak to Professor Aberdeen at the University of Loch Ness. He knows everything about the Golden Haggis and will surely offer ye clues to help ye find it and solve the case.”

The barkeep plonked a plate down on the table between the men. The dish was full of a grey, steaming, lumpy mound. It smelled musty. The old woman smiled and pushed her way back to the bar. Sergeant Widebottom looked down and prodded the squishy mound with a finger.

“Am I meant to eat this?” he asked, looking up. But the stranger had already vanished. Widebottom looked down again, sniffed the food, and decided perhaps he wasn't that hungry after all.

After purchasing some dry bread and a mug of ginger ale, Sergeant Widebottom wandered back up to the castle. He nodded to the guards as he walked through the gates and by chance bumped into Inspector Rumblepants, who was passing the Guard House for the second time in the space of an hour.

“Getting a spot of night air?” asked Sergeant Widebottom brightly, as he walked up to the Inspector.

“Yes I am,” answered the Inspector with authority. “Getting to know the lay of the land, checking out the castle for more clues—that type of thing.”

“Not lost then, are you, Sir?” asked the Sergeant.

“Absolutely not! I never get lost. I have a built-in sense of direction that allows me to always find my way,” stated the Inspector. “I was taught by the Boy Scouts, you know,” he added. “When I got my Bronze Arrow award for navigation, the scoutmaster said that I had an unusual natural talent for finding unique ways to travel between two points.”

The Sergeant smiled. “I was told that the West Tower is up those stairs and two doors on the right, Sir. Is that correct?” he asked.

“Yes, it is,” answered the Inspector gratefully. “Well done,” he added, nodding.

“Shall I meet you at your room for breakfast tomorrow morning?” asked Sergeant Widebottom, his stomach growling. “You can make sure that I don't get lost on the way to breakfast,” he added. Widebottom was hoping that the food that the Inspector would get would be better than what the Corporal had offered to him.

“Super idea,” Inspector Rumblepants sighed with relief. “Up the stairs and second door on the right,” he restated.

“That's right, Sir. See you for breakfast,” said Sergeant Widebottom.

Both men headed in different directions as they left the Guard House, waving goodbye to each other. A cold moon was shining. Its ghostly light illuminated their way. In the darkness, a shadow moved. Once the two men disappeared from view, the man who had followed Sergeant Widebottom from the streets of Stirling stepped out of his hiding place. An evil gleam was in his eyes. He headed out of the city gates to report the events of the night.