Inspector Rumblepants and the Case of the Golden Haggis

by Mike Blyth

  Inspector Rumblepants

  and the case of

  The Golden Haggis

  by

  Mike Blyth

  Illustrations by MikeMotz.com

  Inspector Rumblepants and the Case of the Golden Haggis

  © 2013 Mike Blyth. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopying, or recording, except for the inclusion in a review, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Published in the United States by BQB Publishing

  (Boutique of Quality Books Publishing Company)

  www.bqbpublishing.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  978-1-937084-84-4 (p)

  978-1-937084-85-1 (e)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012952394

  Book design by Robin Krauss, www.lindendesign.biz

  Illustrations by Mike Motz, MikeMotz.com

  Contents

  Foreword

  Chapter 1: The Thief

  Chapter 2: Old Scotland Yard

  Chapter 3: Agent Amber

  Chapter 4: The Man Who Would Be King

  Chapter 5: The Train to Stirling Castle

  Chapter 6: The Crime Scene

  Chapter 7: The Scottish Secret Service

  Chapter 8: The Ambush

  Chapter 9: The Mole

  Chapter 10: Professor Aberdeen

  Chapter 11: The Golden Haggis

  Hidden Anachronism Answers

  Foreword

  I dedicate this book to my children: Alexander, Amber, Christopher, Brook, and Megan Blyth (although Brook and Megan were not yet born when the book was written). The characters are based on Inspector Alex Rumblepants (my oldest son, Alexander), Agent Amber (my oldest daughter, Amber Rose), and Inspector Nailard (my youngest son, Christopher). Sergeant Widebottom is based on my brother, who is a police officer in the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary. Colonel Smithering Blyyd is based on my father, a retired colonel from the Royal Corps of Transport.

  Future Inspector Rumblepants stories include all of my five children. They have brought so much laughter, wonder, and light to the lives of their parents.

  I hope that this book will inspire readers to perfect their own powers of observation and deduction. As such, as you read this book, can you spot the hidden anachronisms? A list of some appears at the end of the book.

  My thanks to my wife, Kristen, who has encouraged me to write these stories and have them printed for our children. I hope my children (and other readers) take as much pleasure in reading these stories as I did in writing them.

  Upcoming Inspector Rumblepants Books

  The Inspector Rumblepants series closely follows the astounding adventures of Inspector Rumblepants, Agent Amber, Captain Chris, Professor Brook, and Sergeant Widebottom.

  • Inspector Rumblepants and the Case of the Crown Jewels

  • Inspector Rumblepants and the Case of the Stolen Buffalo

  • Inspector Rumblepants and the Case of the Eiffel Tower

  • Inspector Rumblepants and the Case of the Pharaoh’s Mummy

  • Inspector Rumblepants and the Case of the Kaiser’s Sword

  • Inspector Rumblepants and the Case of The Great Wall of China

  Chapter 1

  The Thief

  For an entire rainy afternoon in 1865, a hidden Thief peered between the wet branches of a small, thorny bush. He was squinting at a distant, Scottish castle perched on top of a high, rocky outcrop. The rock jutted out, like a giant’s bony finger, from the rolling Scottish fields. His small, beady eyes glimmered with evil, and his thin lips were pressed into a nasty smile. The Thief believed that his plan was perfect and that by morning he would be one step closer to ruling the world. He rubbed his cold hands with glee. Behind him, his brown pony nibbled on the wet grass, its shiny coat slick with rain.

  The Thief watched the castle’s granite walls, looking for a sign of weakness. “Ho, eh, ho,” he chuckled as he looked through his battered, brass telescope. He observed the castle guards pacing on top of the walls, the fading sun flashing on their armor. They would be powerless against his secret weapon. Again the Thief let out a horrid little chuckle. He scrambled from beneath the wet bush, brushing damp leaves off his arms. He led his pony back to a small cave hidden behind thorn-covered brambles and waited for night.

  Far in the distance, Stirling Castle and its rock dominated the landscape, which was windswept and bleak. Flocks of dirty-white sheep dotted the fields. Shepherds with long staves and yapping dogs strode quickly with their bleating flocks toward pens with uneven walls made from grey slabs of rock covered in moss. On the horizon, clouds gathered, dark and brooding. Lightning sparked through the sky, and thunder rumbled across the valley. Darkness settled like a dirty cloak over the countryside below the castle.

  In the small cottages spread across the valley, families lit roaring fires against the clammy evening and approaching storm. People gathered to have supper and settle down for the night. By candlelight, they told stories to their very young children until the little ones fell asleep, snuggled in their parents’ arms.

  The town of Stirling was at the base of the rocky hill. Gusts of cold wind swept through the village, ahead of the approaching storm. Flickering gas lanterns cast dancing pools of light to the streets. The town was alive with noise. Chattering people rushed to their warm, safe homes after a busy day. Small ponies carried carts of hay past the houses. With clattering hooves and breath billowing like steam, they cantered down the muddy roads, children jumping out of the way, laughing.

  From the bottom of the hill came the sound of marching feet, stomping and thunderous. A large troop of tough soldiers trudged up the streets and through quickly parting crowds. They had on bright-red uniform jackets with gold buttons, and thick, woolen kilts. Their swords clinked and clanked. They glared forward with hard, steely eyes under huge, bushy eyebrows.

  Boots stamping, the troops splashed through puddles. People scattered out of their way. Mud speckled their long, red socks and pasty-white legs, their shiny, hobnail boots sent up sharp echoes and the occasional spark. Children leapt in their wake, hooting, shouting, and waving small wooden swords, as mothers tried to coax them indoors for their supper and baths. The soldiers were the castle’s night watch, sent every evening by the Captain of the Guard to replace the soldiers who by day guarded the castle and its secret treasures.

  Past lines of small, thatched cottages the troops strode, with pigs grunting and squealing in muddy gardens. The men clattered past the enticing smell of cooking dinners to go to their job as night guards of the castle. They continued up the narrow road that led to the castle gates. Then they disappeared inside the castle’s huge stony walls and came to a halt with a deafening shout from their huge Sergeant.

  Silence finally settled over the town below. High on top of the castle walls, watch fires were set, flickering brightly in the darkness. Soldiers, armed with short swords and long, sharp halberds, paced the castle ramparts and towers. Soon guards clustered around the watch fires to keep warm. Rain began to patter against the slate roof of the castle, until soon the castle was lost from sight behind a screen of falling rain. Some soldiers huddled under oilskin cloaks to keep dry. The storm hit the castle with the fury of a roaring beast.

  The Thief stirred like an evil spirit in his hidden spot. From the cave he eme
rged, cackling and wheezing. He loaded his secret weapon on his small pony. He knew that no one would see him approach the distant castle, and tonight he would change the world. It was after midnight when he rode his pony across the soaked fields to the castle walls. He stopped beneath the huge, granite cliff. The soldiers had not noticed his slow, steady approach across the meadows, because he had been hidden by the night and the driving rain. The guards, instead of closely watching the fields, had been forced by the rain to sit with their heads covered by their cloaks. When they tried to look out from under their cloaks, the rain drove with stinging force into their eyes. All they could hear was thunder and the moaning wind whipping around the ramparts, slamming and rattling loose castle doors and windows.

  The Thief looked up at the castle above. He was almost invisible, because the rain poured from the sky in gusty sheets. He huddled in his long, flowing cloak to keep off the rain and the cold. The mysterious Thief’s face was hidden in shadow. When lightning speared the night, his eyes glinted like a cat’s. Beneath a rocky outcrop, he tied the pony to a tree. Then he pulled a small sack from a pack strapped to the pony. On the sack was written the word “loot” in small, gold letters. Quickly, he looked around the empty fields, peering in the darkness for a few moments to see if anyone had noticed him.

  Satisfied that he was alone, the Thief smiled to himself. Making small noises such as “ho, eh, ho . . . thrrrpp,” the mysterious man pulled from the sack a long piece of rope with a metal hook tied to one end. He whirled the hook with some spare rope around his head four times and threw it high in the air. The hook and rope disappeared in the darkness, but suddenly there was a faint clanking sound from high above him. He gleefully muttered, “hee, hee,” and he tugged hard on the rope.

  When the rope was taut, he pulled harder and started to climb, hand over hand, like a monkey. Alas, the rope abruptly lurched and shuddered in his hands, and the hook came loose. The Thief looked up in surprise as he tumbled down and fell on a wet bush. Quickly struggling to his feet, he looked around for a moment, anxious about whether he had been heard. In the next second, the hook appeared, tumbling down out of the darkness, hitting him on the head with a thud.

  He slowly fell over, landing with a splash in the soggy ground. Stunned, he softly mumbled, “mon-a-me,” and passed out. The pony looked at him for a moment and then went back to nibbling the lush grass. Soon the sound of the Thief’s snoring filled the night air.

  Several hours later, he woke up, soaked and cold. It was still night, and the rain was still falling. He slowly climbed to his feet, shivering. He muttered angrily to himself as he rubbed a big lump on his head. He spotted his fallen rope with the metal hook on the grass nearby, in a puddle of water. His pony was still safely tethered to the tree.

  He was not discouraged. Again he whirled the hook around in the air, throwing it high. It clanked against the rock. He pulled on the rope—although this time, he watched above very carefully, because one sore lump on his head was enough for one night. This time, the line seemed more secure. He climbed the rope quickly, hand over hand.

  Moments later, he had completely scaled the castle wall and had slid unseen over the top of the wall. He knew where he was headed. He darted from one shadow to the next, avoiding light from the glowing embers of the watch fires. He crept silently between the sleeping guards, who were wrapped in their wool blankets and did not hear him. He entered a room of the castle through a stout wooden door blown open by the wind. He locked the door behind him. In the darkness of the castle, he silently wound his way along smoky corridors filled with flickering gas lamps. Making his way down the winding stairs, he pushed deeper into the castle.

  He could hear a patrol guard coming, so he leaped with cat-like speed into a closet to hide. After the guard had passed, he came out and continued to slink along quietly in the maze of passageways until at last he came to a place with no windows and very thick walls. He knew where he was—in the dank dungeon at the bottom of the castle. He hid behind a barrel. A group of soldiers guarded a room at the far end of the chamber, and that room was his goal.

  The room was the best-protected chamber in all of Scotland. The brave soldiers were huge—barrel-chested, with legs and arms like tree trunks. They stood alert, armed with razor-sharp swords, outside a giant metal door. The only key for the door was on a chain hung around the neck of the Captain of the Guard, who was sleeping high above in the Guard House.

  Inside the protected room was the Golden Haggis of Scotland! It was the legendary symbol of Scottish royalty, passed down through hundreds of generations of Scotland’s greatest kings.

  The Thief was happy to be so close to what he wanted to steal. From beneath his cloak, he drew out a strange device. It had a mass of twisting brass tubes, ending in a nozzle like that of a fire hose. Strapped to the top of the contraption was a glass bottle filled with a sloshing, orange liquid. The bottle was connected to the device by a thick, rubber tube. A priming pump was attached to one side of the device; with it, he quietly pumped some of the fluid into the device. After this task was done, he aimed the device carefully from where he was hiding. When he pressed a button on the device, blobs of liquid flew from the contraption like arrows through the air. Dark, lumpy orange stains appeared on the shiny armor of one of the Scottish soldiers. The guard looked down in surprise, his large, bushy red eyebrows raised. He quickly drew his sharp sword with a swishing sound.

  The other three soldiers within the chamber also pulled out their swords in unison, with a lightning-fast motion. Their weapons were drawn and ready, but they did not know the source of the attack. As they waited, more lumpy orange spots appeared on their armored chests and clothing. Blood pounded in their veins as they peered from beneath their eyebrows, looking for the attacker. Slowly, their faces turned green. One by one, they dropped their swords, which clattered on the granite floor. They clutched their loudly gurgling stomachs.

  “Excuse me!” cried one of the soldiers in surprise, staggering for the bathroom, trying to move as fast as he could, his legs taking very small steps. He was soon followed by the other soldiers, who were trying to muffle smelly burps and great gusts of windy farts. The echoes of their running feet and flatulence quickly faded, until only the faint sound of distant groans could be heard through the corridors. The door to the chamber now stood completely unguarded.

  Then a creepy giggle came from a passageway. From the shadowy corridor, the Thief trotted quickly, his cape billowing behind him. He pulled from his pocket a thin lock pick. He expertly slid the pick in the keyhole and turned it this way and that, his ear pressed against the big door. After a few moments, he heard a faint click that meant he had succeeded in picking the lock, and the huge door swung open with a creak.

  With a final glance back into the now-empty corridor, he slipped inside the room.

  Chapter 2

  Old Scotland Yard

  Old Scotland Yard had a unique unit called the Special and Confusing Crime Division. The finest police in all of Great Britain worked in this unit. In this division, the most demanding and difficult cases were solved by the cleverest of detectives. Its headquarters were housed in a large, old, red-brick building next to the clock tower of Big Ben in the center of Old London Town. Hundreds of police officers with funny, cone-shaped helmets bustled through narrow corridors that were crowded with filing cabinets and piles of teetering paper reports.

  Occasionally a villain, handcuffed and ready to be interviewed, was escorted by burly police officers through the sea of dark-blue uniforms with shiny brass buttons. Detectives dressed in tweed and wool suits could be seen moving with great purpose, puffing on pipes, as they went about solving mysterious and complex crimes. Some carried bundles of paperwork, their tweed jackets covered in white fingerprinting dust. There were faint sounds, muffled by grime-covered windows and the cooing of countless pigeons, of horses clattering down the streets and the laughter of street urchins.

  As the summer’s afternoon faded into evenin
g, long streams of golden light illuminated the otherwise gloomy corridors and offices.

  “Rumblepants, Widebottom!” roared Chief Inspector Grumpibugger, the head of the Special and Confusing Crime Division, from his battered office door.

  Grumpibugger had thrown his coat on the back of his chair and stood with his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His large, hairy arms were folded across his crumpled white shirt. From one side of his mouth hung an unlit wooden pipe, which he chewed on angrily as he stood waiting at his office door.

  “Coming, Chief,” came a voice from the back of the crowded office. Sergeant Simon Widebottom was a stout policeman whose enormous chest and arms filled every inch of his uniform, almost causing the buttons to pop off. He appeared from behind a long file cabinet, holding a thick pile of paper. Written on the front page, in crayon, were the words “Another Unsolved Case.”

  He moved swiftly past small groups of typing secretaries and busy police officers toward the office of Chief Inspector Grumpibugger. The inspector was in his office, sitting in his creaking chair with his feet up on his desk. He was rereading the report that he had just received by express carrier pigeon from Scotland.

  “Where’s Inspector Rumblepants this afternoon, Sergeant?” asked the Chief Inspector in a gruff voice, looking up from the report paper.

  The Sergeant respectfully saluted with his left hand and smiled, “With his mother today, Chief. It is her birthday.”

  The Inspector waved the report paper in his hand, saying, “I have a top-secret report from the Scottish Police Division.

  They say that the Golden Haggis was stolen from Stirling Castle last night,” grunted Grumpibugger, taking his feet from the desk and leaning forward so that no one outside his office could hear him.

  Sergeant Widebottom looked puzzled. “Golden Haggis?” he asked, scratching his head in confusion.

  “Shh, it’s a secret!” scowled Grumpibugger, putting his finger to his lips and gesturing for Sergeant Widebottom to close the office door.