Inspector Rumblepants and the Case of the Golden Haggis

by Mike Blyth

  “I’m not too sure what it is either,” he admitted, raising his voice slightly when the door was closed. “However, it’s apparently very important to those Scottish folks, and it’s been stolen. The report says they are quite upset about it.” He handed the report to Sergeant Widebottom and continued, “Inspector Sherlock Holmes and Mr. Watson are on holiday this week in Spain. That successful fellow from the Fast Armed Response Team, Inspector Nailard, is giving a speech at a spy convention. So the case goes to you and Inspector Rumblepants. You will be traveling on the late-night express train to Dundee. Then you will go by stagecoach to the town of Stirling, to help the Scottish police investigate the matter before the national newspapers find out and cause an uproar.”

  The inspector pointed at the report. “Get Inspector Rumblepants and come back here within the hour. Remember, this matter is top secret. No one must know. Absolutely no one!” He chewed on his pipe for a moment and then looked up, saying gruffly, “And I want that report back once you have both read it. I promised that Nailard fellow that I’d let him look at it when he’s back from the spy convention.”

  “Can I tell Inspector Rumblepants about the Haggis?” whispered Sergeant Widebottom, folding the report and tucking it inside his helmet for safekeeping.

  “Well of course. But absolutely no one else,” answered the Chief Inspector.

  “What about the Scottish police who will be helping us, Sir?” Widebottom queried. “Can I tell them about it?”

  “Clearly you can tell them, because they know about the Haggis. They were the ones who sent the report about it to us,” groaned Chief Inspector Grumpibugger, shaking his head.

  “What about those soldiers guarding the Haggis?” asked the Sergeant. “Can we tell them that it has been stolen?” He pulled out his notebook and a pencil to write down all the Inspector’s answers.

  “Of course,” said the Chief Inspector, getting frustrated. “You would think the guards would have noticed that the Haggis is not there anymore.” The Inspector shrugged. “Just use your common sense,” he barked. (“What little there is of it,” he muttered quietly to himself, looking exasperated.) “Now get Rumblepants, and ask my secretary to bring in some of my extra-strong headache pills and a glass of water.”

  Sergeant Widebottom’s police carriage flew through the crowded streets of London, its two horses pulling it with all their might. Foamy sweat sprayed from their flanks. As he drove on wildly, the horses’ noses flared out on the hot summer afternoon. The swift carriage caused pedestrians to panic and scatter as the carriage toppled apple carts and vegetable stalls in the marketplace. It roared past the debris, with sparks flying from the metal carriage wheels. Sergeant Widebottom cracked his whip with a huge grin across his face as he entered Piccadilly Street, his horn honking and whistle blowing. The carriage finally skidded to a halt with a shriek of the brakes outside of 52 Pickle Gherkin Street, the home of Inspector Rumblepants’s mother.

  Sergeant Widebottom leapt from the driver’s seat without even bothering, in his excitement, to tie the horses to the hitching post. He ran to the door of the small house. After much banging of the gnome doorknocker by Widebottom, a little, grey-haired woman appeared, wearing an old cardigan with several holes in it and covered in biscuit crumbs.

  She smiled sweetly up at Sergeant Widebottom. “Hello, young Simon,” she asked in a creaky voice. “Are you looking for little Alex?” She squinted at him from behind wire-rimmed spectacles.

  Sergeant Widebottom held his helmet in his hands, and he tried to look official and important. “Top-secret police business, Mrs. Rumblepants,” said Sergeant Widebottom, saluting. “The Inspector is needed at Old Scotland Yard immediately for a confidential case that I am forbidden to tell anyone about!”

  “Yes, come in dear. I have some tea and a fresh cake I’ve just baked,” she said, turning slowly and hobbling down the narrow corridor to the front parlor to pour some tea for the Sergeant. “Come along dear, take the weight off your feet for a little while,” she crooned. “You must be tired after chasing criminals down streets the entire day, blowing your whistle all the time,” she said kindly as they went toward the parlor.

  “We really have to leave right away, Mrs. Rumblepants,” he informed her as she walked to the kitchen. “We have a top-secret mission involving the stolen Golden Haggis of Scotland. Oops! Just forget I told you that, Mrs. Rumblepants,” said Sergeant Widebottom worriedly, scratching his head.

  “What was that, dear? My hearing is not very good anymore, and I can’t find my ear trumpet,” said Mrs. Rumblepants from the kitchen. The sound of clinking china and her soft humming drew Sergeant Widebottom into the parlor. The cake was huge, it looked delicious, and it smelled fabulous. His hungry stomach rumbled noisily.

  “Well, just for a few minutes, then, Mrs. Rumblepants, before we head for Scotland,” said Sergeant Widebottom, accepting a china plate with a big piece of cake on it and cup of steaming tea. He placed his police helmet on the coffee table and sat down in a large, comfy armchair.

  “Where is the Inspector, Mrs. Rumblepants?” asked Sergeant Widebottom, taking a large bite of the cake.

  “In the garden, dear. I’ll get him for you. You just relax from all that tiring police business,” she said soothingly, smiling at the Sergeant.

  He nodded pleasantly.

  “There’s plenty more cake, once you’ve finished that piece. A growing boy like you needs to eat,” she said sweetly, picking up her walking cane and banging it loudly on a small window that overlooked her tiny garden.

  “Alex,” she called, “one of your friends from school is here.” She looked at the Sergeant and smiled. “He’s helping me with my compost heap. Nice boy. Always helps his mother.”

  She banged on the window again. The glass cracked under the force of her walking stick. She put her cane beside her chair and leaned forward to put another large piece of cake on the Sergeant’s plate, while pouring more tea in his cup.

  “Make sure you pop some cake into your helmet for later,” said Mrs. Rumblepants, wrapping some cake into a napkin for the Sergeant. “More tea dear?” she asked.

  “What did you say, Mum?” asked Alexander Jack Rumblepants, wiping dirt from his hands on a dishcloth as he walked into the front parlor. He was a tall, elegant man with a droopy moustache. His worn, tweed trousers were held up with blue suspenders, and he sported a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Sergeant Widebottom put down his empty plate and teacup and stood up, holding his funny, cone-shaped helmet, while wiping crumbs off his uniform.

  “Good afternoon, Sergeant,” said Inspector Rumblepants in surprise. “Enjoying Mother’s home cooking, I see?”

  He noticed the broken window pane and shook his head. “I will fix the window, again, Mother, when I get back from work. You really need to stop hitting things with your walking stick. You will do someone real harm one day.”

  His mother sighed.

  “I really should tie a pillow to the end of it,” he muttered to himself.

  Moments later, Inspector Rumblepants and Sergeant Widebottom stood outside on the cobbled street. They were ready to head to the police station to speak to Chief Inspector Grumpibugger. But the police carriage was nowhere to be seen. They peered up and down the empty street for any sign of it. As they were looking for the missing carriage, Sergeant Widebottom explained the case of the stolen Haggis to the Inspector and that Grumpibugger had even consulted about the case with the great Inspector Nailard, from the Fast Armed Response Team.

  “My, my,” said Rumblepants. “You’ll recall Nailard, who gave us some advice in our previous case about a stolen clock. I hear he always nails the correct culprit. His team is first-rate, and they like blowing stuff up. If Grumpibugger has talked to him, then this is a crucial case.”

  After some time in which they had no luck finding the carriage, Inspector Rumblepants asked, “You’re sure that you left the carriage here, Sergeant?”

  “Yup. I wonder where it could be.” S
ergeant Widebottom scratched his head in confusion.

  “What did you tie the reins to?” asked Rumblepants suspiciously.

  “To be honest, I’m not sure I tied them to anything,” admitted the Sergeant. “I was in such a rush to get you that I kind of just jumped from the carriage and ran into your mum’s house.”

  Inspector Rumblepants sighed. “Just how many police carriages have wandered off from you so far this year, Sergeant?” he asked, closing his eyes for a moment and rubbing the temples of his head with one hand.

  “This will be the fifth!” Widebottom wailed and then asked quietly, “Shall I get a taxi, like the last time?”

  The Inspector nodded and went back into his mother’s house for another cup of tea. Outside, the Sergeant hailed a taxi carriage to take them to the police station.

  Chapter 3

  Agent Amber

  The murky-brown water of the River Thames flowed sluggishly in the fog past a huge, grey, granite building that sat protected in the center of London, surrounded by a bit of grass, a tall metal fence, and empty gravel courtyards. The building was the headquarters of a clandestine agency called MI six-and-a-half, home to Britain’s most talented spies and secret agents.

  As the early morning sun burnt away the rolling mist, small patches of grass sparkled with a thousand drops of dew. All of the small windows of the building were dark. Only two doors led into the building; these doors were big enough to allow a horse and rider to enter. The old oak portals were laced with bands of studded metal, strong enough to stop a besieging army. The pathways were empty at this early hour, water dripping from strange stone gargoyles, barely visible in the mist, which sat perched high above the streets. In the distance, London was waking. Carriages rattled. Milk bottles clanked when placed on the door stoops by dairy workers. Men talked gruffly as they headed to work.

  Then came the delicate sound of a woman’s heeled shoes. Eventually she materialized from the fog, walking toward the spy building’s menacing door, which faced toward the river. The young girl, wearing a nice pink skirt and blouse, materialized from the misty air, striding happily with purpose toward the closed portal. Her purse was swinging at her side, and she hummed a pretty tune. She stopped next to the door, raised one delicate hand, and rapped three times—then four more times. The knocking was a secret signal. There came a snapping sound of a metal bolt being opened, and an eye peephole appeared. After a few moments, the door slowly opened, revealing a long, dark tunnel with no one inside. The cheerful girl, her long hair tied in a loose bun, strode in without looking back, the door banging shut behind her.

  Walking purposefully down dimly lit corridors and up winding staircases, she strode deeper and deeper into the building, never seeing another person. Each time she came to a closed door, she repeated the knocking code, whereupon the door would swing open. In some corridors, she danced along the cobbles, being very careful to step on the right ones. She had to step on only certain stones, because some of the stones had hidden springs that would cause poisoned darts to fly from small holes in the walls. Stepping on certain cobblestones also caused large boulders to fall on anyone walking through the hallway. In other corridors, she sprinted and took long jumps, because the floor had been designed to collapse into a deep pit if walked upon by an unsuspecting intruder.

  Finally, she arrived, slightly puffing, to a green door. The door was opened by a giant of a man, almost seven feet tall, who was dressed in a smart, dark, pinstriped blue suit and bowler hat. He looked down at her. He nodded, and she walked past him into a large room where many people were working. It had high ceilings, rich carpets, and dark, mahogany-paneled walls. Bronze gas lights lit the room with a warm glow, and well-dressed people moved past in a hurried rush, carrying files and folders, all of which were marked in big red letters, “Top Secret.”

  The girl paused, brushed down her outfit, and headed to a corridor lined with large paintings. A severe-looking old woman with grey hair and small glasses looked up at the girl from her desk.

  “How may I help you?” she asked the girl coldly, peering over her wire glasses.

  “I have an appointment with Mr. M,” the girl replied sweetly and smiling, while taking a folded letter from her purse and handing it to the old woman.

  The woman looked at the letter. “Mr. M is sick today, but you can see Mr. N,” she replied, pushing a hidden button underneath her desk. The door behind her opened with a quiet swish.

  “Go in,” she instructed the girl. She returned to the report she had been reading. She didn’t look up again.

  The girl looked at the imposing, carved-wood door. She hesitated for a second before walking in. The room was a library lined with bookshelves that stretched up for two floors. The door swung silently behind her and clicked softly as it locked closed.

  She moved toward a table covered with old books. She placed her purse on the table. Looking around the room from top to bottom, she noticed staircases leading to walkways. These walkways allowed a person access to the shelves of the books high above. On the ground floor, bookshelves stretched toward several small alcoves where a visitor could read undisturbed and unseen. The room was empty of furniture, apart from a table with a teapot, and an old chair. She observed several half-finished cups of tea and a plate of biscuits sitting on a table in the corner. She picked up a biscuit from the plate and took a small bite.

  Suddenly from a dark corner, a burly man rushed toward her with a knife in his hand, raised high in the air. His face was covered with a mask, and he was dressed all in black. She put the biscuit down and smoothly ducked to one side, grabbing the man by his shirt and trouser leg. She spun him around, throwing him toward a shelf. With a loud grunt, he disappeared into a pile of falling books.

  She picked up another biscuit from the plate as two more men leapt at her from the walkways above, swinging from ropes. She grabbed her purse from the table and rolled toward a bookshelf. With one hand, she reached inside her purse. At the same time, she held the biscuit delicately in her mouth. Coming quickly to her feet, in one smooth motion she sprayed rose-scented perfume into one man’s eyes. He howled in pain, rubbed his stinging eyes, and dropped a club that he had been carrying.

  She kicked the second man in the shin. As he bent down, she hit him hard on the head with her purse. He fell to the floor with a thud, and she took the biscuit from her mouth and dipped it into some tea before eating it.

  Looking around calmly, the girl put one hand to her head to make sure that her bun was still secure. She finished off her biscuit and added a spoonful of sugar into her tea. Then she cartwheeled across the room as four more tough men ran from behind bookshelves. They started to close in menacingly from all sides, holding clubs and knives. She smiled brightly and slipped off her heeled shoes with a toe. The men hesitated and looked at each other nervously.

  The young girl flicked up a shoe with one foot, caught it in her hand, and threw it with tremendous force at one man. The shoe flew through the air in a spinning blur. The man was hit in the head with the heel and fell unconscious to the floor with a large, heel-shaped bruise appearing on his forehead. The purse followed suit in a blur, as did the second shoe. At that point, two more men dropped to the floor, groaning.

  The man who had been blinded by the perfume bumped into another bookshelf, and this shelf crashed to the floor behind the girl, falling on top of him. He moaned from underneath a pile of books and then was still. The last man looked at each of his fallen comrades and then ran at the girl with a roar. She leapt into the air, spinning over the man while pulling off his mask and slamming her hairbrush into the back of his head with a loud smash.

  As she landed, she said sweetly, “Hello, Bob.” The man smiled at her with a dazed look on his face and then fell over slowly. The girl looked around before taking another biscuit from the plate.

  “Enough!” came a commanding voice from the walkway above the groaning men and the young girl. A silver-haired old man slowly descended a spiral staircase
, wearing a dark, pinstriped suit. He sported a bowler hat and carried an elegant cane in one hand. He stepped over fallen bookshelves and limp bodies, smiling brightly.

  “Very good, Agent Amber, a most impressive display,” he said warmly and gave the girl a grandfatherly hug. She smiled over his frail shoulder and hugged him back.

  “The poor boys didn’t stand a chance. You didn’t have to hit them so hard, you know,” he admonished, patting her gently on the shoulder.

  Agent Amber smiled, “But I was very gentle, N.” She took his hand in hers. “I hardly hit them at all—more of a tap here and there.” She stopped to slip on her shoes, frowning at a scuff mark on one of them.

  “Your idea of a tap is not the same as other people’s, Agent Amber,” said the old man, grinning, “which is why in the field, you are one of our best Agents.” He sat down slowly in an old, worn chair and reached for the teapot.

  “Have you ever heard of the Golden Haggis?” asked N, as Agent Amber picked up her hairbrush and put it back in her purse. She sat down opposite him and picked up her teacup, taking a dainty sip.

  “The Golden Haggis is a Scottish symbol for royalty,” she said. “It is a gold statue of a small mythical animal, believed to live in the high mountains. The statue weighs twenty-four pounds, was made in the year 1245, and is located in Stirling Castle, one of the most secure places in Scotland,” answered Agent Amber.

  “Correct on all counts—apart from the fact the statue is no longer in Stirling Castle,” answered N as he finished his tea. “Now that you have passed your last test to be a top-secret agent in the service of Queen Victoria, I have your first assignment. It should be fun,” he promised, standing up slowly and picking up his cane.

  “Let us go to the briefing room,” he instructed as he walked toward the door. “I can give you some more information on your assignment there.”