by Mike Blyth
He looked over his shoulder to observe one of the men finally rising groggily to his feet. “Terry, help poor Alfred from underneath those books, will you? And tell Stanley to stop rubbing his eyes, because rubbing will only make the stinging worse.” He smiled at Agent Amber. Without looking back, he continued, “Tidy this place up a bit as well, it is an awful mess.” Then he opened a secret door and led the girl into his private office.
Chapter 4
The Man Who Would Be King
In Stirling on the night of the theft, sounds of soldiers shouting and trumpets blowing in alarm could be heard far in the distance. Although the mysterious Thief was now many miles away, riding his pony across the grassy plains, he could still faintly hear the ruckus. The storm had finally moved on, toward the distant sea. The Thief could see the first dim glow of the approaching morning, changing the horizon from black to purple. He giggled quietly about his success, his sack bulging with the Golden Haggis that he had stolen the night before.
“Ho, eh, ho . . . thrrrpp,” he chuckled, the loot sack held firmly in his bony hands. Occasionally he looked over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being followed. He saw no one following him. The meadows and fields were empty. He could hear the first roosters start to wake up the local farmers, crowing loudly in muddy farmyards. Mist clung to the air as the sun slowly warmed the soaked landscape.
Finally, the rider and his pony approached a wooded area next to a slimy green pond. At his approach, brown frogs jumped from fallen logs, splashing into the pond as he passed.
The Thief rode on, twigs cracking. He splashed through muddy puddles to a clearing at the center of the woods. The spot was located in a valley in the Scottish countryside. Water was still dripping from branches as the sun appeared over the horizon, and birds started to sing.
The rider jumped from his pony with a splash and pulled his hood down. His cloak started to steam as the sun began warming the wet wool, surrounding him with mist.
The mysterious Thief was tall and bony, with sharp features. His black hair was flat and oily, slick against his head. His beady eyes flickered around the clearing, and he pulled on his trimmed moustache with excitement. He tied his pony to a tree, where it started to nibble at the moss-covered rocks contentedly.
He stood in the center of the clearing next to the pond, squinting into the shrouded woods as he waited for a visitor to arrive. Eventually the sounds of someone approaching startled the birds in the trees, and they flew into the air, squawking loudly. He tightened his grip on the sack of stolen goods. He heard cracking twigs and knew someone was approaching him, drawing closer.
After a few moments, he could see a man moving through the trees toward him. The visitor grunted as he slipped on wet logs and stepped knee-deep into a big puddle. He made his way toward the pond and woods where the Thief waited for him. The Thief bowed slightly and smiled a nasty, thin smile as the newcomer entered the small clearing. The pony looked up for a moment before returning to munching on his breakfast of wet moss.
“Ho, eh, ho. Good moan-ing, your Royal Highness,” said the Thief in a strong French accent. He looked around the woods nervously, but no one else had come with the visitor. They were alone, except for a few birds that had settled back into their resting places and a nervous hedgehog that scampered back into his burrow at the sight of the men.
The visitor was short with a big, round belly. He wore a dark tartan cloak, and his curly red hair was wet from the dripping trees. His face was covered with a bushy red beard. He examined the Thief with tiny, ice-blue eyes.
“Och eye the nooo. Yer mission was a success, and ye have the Golden Haggis?” he asked with a strong Scottish accent, eyeing up the bulging sack with greed. He reached for the sack with two huge, hairy hands.
“Yes, Monsieur. I have le little Golden Haggis,” replied the Thief as he stepped back slightly and out of reach of the visitor’s grasping hands.
“Show it to me,” demanded the pot-bellied man urgently. “I must see it for me-self.”
The Thief smiled a mean little smile and opened his sack. “Then we have a deal?” he asked, opening the sack wide enough so that the man could see what was inside.
Inside the sack there was a bright flash as the morning sun struck the Haggis. The sight caused the pot-bellied man to gasp in pleasure.
“Aye, we have a deal,” he grunted, delighted. “How did ye do it?” he asked. “That place is the most heavily guarded place in Scotland. I never thought ye could do it,” he admitted in disbelief.
“I have my ways, yer Highness,” grinned the Thief. He added with a horrible smirk, “This is not the first royal palace I have robbed.”
“Aye, but ye have been caught before,” laughed the Prince nastily.
“But I escaped,” leered the Thief, waving his hands dismissively at the Prince’s snarky comment. “No one could hold me for long,” he added with a sneer. “The police are nincompoops, and ’twas easy to get away.”
“Then, Count Tomat Le Ketchoop, if it goes according to our plan, I’ll reward ye with the kingdom of Wales, as we agreed,” said Prince to the Thief. The Prince extended his meaty hands out again to the Count, in order to get the sack.
The Count giggled, “thrrrpp,” and he tossed over the sack. The Prince eagerly grabbed it and looked inside again, a huge smile appearing from behind his shaggy beard. He took the golden statue out of the bag, turning the statue around in his hands and letting the sunlight make it shine.
From behind the Count came the sound of panting. The Count looked down and saw a small furry dog looking up at him. It was sitting at his ankles. The dog’s head cocked in a cute way, its big, soft eyes resting on the Count. It let out a little growl.
“Such a cute little doggy, your Highness,” said the Count, reaching down to pat the tiny dog.
“No, don’t!” shouted the Scotsman in warning. “That be the deadly killer highland fighting dog. That breed is owned only by royal princes of Scotland. It will have yer arm off in a second!” he warned.
The Count looked at the little dog with doubt and shook his head. “But it is so tiny,” said the Count, puzzled, “and so very fluffy.”
“That breed of dog will bite yer ankles off in a jiffy,” the Prince cautioned again. “They can jump as high as yer waist, and they can do awful damage if they want to,” he added.
The Count smiled politely, but he did not believe the Prince.
“Many an Englishman has run screaming from the battlefield because my dogs have had their way,” the Prince added for effect. “Yes, the battle of Bannockburn was won only because we had five of the little buggers on our side, and they had not had their tea that morning!” He smiled fondly at the memory of the long-distant victory.
The Count nodded. “Then I shall be careful of the wee doggies,” he said. “So now, your Highness—will you claim the Scottish throne, and then the British crown?” he asked, laughing wickedly as they returned to their business.
“Yes,” replied the Scottish Prince. “The rule is that a person with royal blood who holds the Golden Haggis is rightly the King of Scotland.” He could not take his eyes off the small Golden Haggis, which was gleaming in the morning sun. He growled, “I am the Prince of Dundee. But with the Golden Haggis in my possession, I will rule Scotland as king.”
The Count chuckled and rubbed his hands with glee.
“And once I am King of Scotland,” the Scotsman continued, “I will lead the mighty, brave armies of Scotland against the puny armies of the Queen of England. I will rule of all of the British Isles.” His chest inflated with ego. He looked from the statue to the sky, where his eyes could imagine more far-off victories and glories. “Eventually, the world will be mine.”
After a moment, his gaze focused back on the Count. “And ye will be the Prince of Wales, my Count. Ye will be returned to your rightful glory and given as many sheep as ye can carry.” He paused for dramatic effect before continuing exuberantly. “When I invade Europe, I will give Fr
ance and other nations to ye as my loyal lieutenant!”
The Prince stopped to look around warily and then warned the Count, “But the coming weeks will be dangerous. No one must interfere with my plans until I am ready to take the Scottish throne. Luckily, the famous Sherlock Holmes and his dastardly assistant, Mr. Watson, are away on holiday, fishing on a lake in Spain. So nothing should get in the way of our plans.”
He leaned close to the Count’s ear.
“To be safe,” the Prince whispered, “you and yer gypsies must prevent the police from discovering my plans! Otherwise, we will both find ourselves in the Tower of London as prisoners of Queen Victoria,” he warned sternly.
The Count nodded in agreement. “I have one of my men working inside of the Scottish police headquarters, who will tell me if there is any danger,” he assured the Prince.
The Count held up his strange device. The orange, lumpy liquid sloshed around in the glass bottle stuck on top of the device. “I also have my Fart-urator gun, and my gypsies can easily overcome any people who stand in their way!”
The Prince looked at the strange device in wonder. “And what, pray tell, does it do?” he asked the Count, mystified.
The Count grinned, showing his yellow, crooked teeth. “If you get a splish of my secret ingredient on you, it makes even the toughest of men run for the toilet.”
The Prince stepped back and stared at the weapon in awe.
“That weapon could be used to conquer the world,” he exclaimed. “How many do ye have of those guns?” he asked.
The Count chuckled. “This is the prototype; however, I am secretly making hundreds in a castle. We can arm the whole of the Scottish Army. The dastardly English will not know what to do or where to run, other than to the bathroom.”
The Scottish Prince looked pleased. “At last, we will beat the English and teach them a lesson, while also making them look rather silly at the same time!” he laughed.
Both men started to laugh together conspiratorially. They shook hands in parting. “We will meet again in two weeks, my Count. Soon the whole of Great Britain will be ours,” roared the Scottish Prince, before nervously looking around again to see if anyone had heard him.
“I really should stop shouting things like that,” muttered the Prince. “I am going to get meself in trouble again!”
The Count smiled and climbed on his pony. “Ho, eh, ho,” he giggled. “Nothing will stop me now.”
Chapter 5
The Train to Stirling Castle
Waterloo Station in London was filled with the noisy chatter of people laughing and shouting in many different languages. The people’s noises mingled with the bleating coos of hundreds of pigeons, fluttering high above the crowds of people. The birds nested in the rust-stained iron rafters. The air was filled with strange smells, such as smoke and soot from the train’s steam engines. Feathers, as well as less pleasant things, drifted down from the skylights.
Men stacked piles of luggage and large wooden crates on crowded trains that puffed steam and soot. Uniformed train conductors in crisp blue uniforms with gold braids and small round caps stood beside the open train doors, helping people with their luggage or pointing out which train or compartment the passengers should head for.
On one huge wall, men scrambled along scaffolding. They put large letters into long metal slots. These wooden, white-painted letters informed people on which platform to find their train and when the trains would leave. Whistles blew constantly, and a steady stream of trains chugged and clattered in and out of the station, hissing explosively as they shunted to a stop. Each train was painted a different color.
The train drivers leaned against their trains. Because they worked shoveling coal into the engine furnaces, their faces and hands were black. They stood with fatherly pride next to their trains, puffing on long, wooden pipes. Small boys scampered among the crowd, their notebooks full of train names and numbers that they collected as a hobby.
Slowly working their way through the crowd, Inspector Rumblepants and Sergeant Widebottom each carried a brown leather, police-issued suitcase in which they had packed clothes for their trip. Sergeant Widebottom also took a black case that contained the latest in police investigation equipment. They could use the equipment to look for clues at the crime scene.
Looking up at the information board, they spotted which platform they needed. They headed for their train, now weaving as quickly as possible through the bustling crowds. Climbing through the door of the first-class carriage compartment, they put their leather suitcases in the overhead storage racks and sat back in the leather-bound chairs.
Sergeant Widebottom, still clutching the black case borrowed from the police headquarters, cleared his throat. “So this Golden Haggis that’s been stolen,” he started.
“Shh!” Rumblepants admonished. “Good Lord, man! It’s a top-secret case. Even Inspector Nailard is being kept informed about it, so that’s how secret it is! Wait until I close the compartment door so that no one will overhear us.” He got up and firmly closed the door to their carriage.
Sergeant Widebottom waited until the door was closed and then leaned forward as Rumblepants sat back down again. “This Golden Haggis,” he whispered, “what actually is it?”
Inspector Rumblepants leaned forward so that his mouth was almost next to Sergeant Widebottom’s ear. “I didn’t have much time to research it properly, I have to admit,” he whispered back. “But I did speak to Old Jock, from the Stolen Bike Department, before we left. He told me that Tiny McFarlane, from the Missing Purse Division, said that the Golden Haggis is from Scotland. Tiny claims a Haggis is a small Scottish animal, about the size of a small dog, that only lives in the highest mountains of Scotland.”
He started to sit back in his seat before he remembered something else to say. He leaned forward again. “Apparently, the Haggis’s left legs are shorter than their right ones so that they can more easily travel around a hill.”
He frowned as he thought about what he had been told. “It sounds very strange. It didn’t seem to make any sense at the time. Old Jock also said that Tiny claims the Haggis tend to roll downhill if they try to travel in the wrong direction, which is why they are so rare.”
“So someone,” Widebottom surmised, “has stolen an odd, rare, Scottish dog-like animal with funny legs and a tendency to fall down hills.” Sergeant Widebottom looked confused.
“Apparently so,” agreed Inspector Rumblepants, scratching his head in a puzzled manner. “The Scottish are a strange bunch,” he added, looking out the window at the passengers boarding other trains.
A knocking sound interrupted their conversation, so they looked up at the compartment’s glass door. A grey-haired old lady, pushing a squeaky tea trolley, smiled at them.
“Would you boys like a cup of tea and some biscuits for the trip?” she asked as the Inspector slid open the door.
The Inspector looked at the assortment of biscuits and cakes hungrily. “Yes, please. Can I get a slice of carrot cake and a cup of tea?” he asked, handing over a shilling to the old lady.
He turned to ask Sergeant Widebottom whether he was hungry, only to find the Sergeant already eating the biggest sandwich he had ever seen, with a large slice of cake on a handkerchief on the chair next to him. Further, he had a steaming flask of coffee.
The Sergeant smiled as crumbs fell from his mouth. “Your mum packed me some grub for our trip,” he explained.
Inspector Rumblepants shook his head, amazed. “She told me that she had no food left in the cupboard, and she gave me a shilling for the trip to Dundee,” grumbled the Inspector.
Sergeant Widebottom held up a half-eaten sandwich. “You can have some of mine, Sir,” he offered. He reached for a large thermos of tea that Inspector Rumblepants’s mother had given him.
“Hey, that’s my thermos!” sputtered the Inspector, shocked. “I was looking for that everywhere,” he added.
Sergeant Widebottom held up his mug of steaming tea, bits of sand
wich floating on the surface. “We can share, if you like,” he said with a bright smile.
The Inspector glared at the Sergeant. The train lurched forward, making Rumblepants spill half of his scalding hot tea down one trouser leg. “No thank you,” he muttered. He sat down and started to nibble his small slice of cake.
Sergeant Widebottom dug into his police helmet and pulled out an apple that the Inspector’s mother had picked from her garden.
The Inspector sighed. “When we arrive, we will be met by Inspector Thistle McDonald from the Scottish police in Dundee. He will give us all of the information we will require to solve this case very quickly,” he said confidently, eating the last of his small slice of cake.
A whistle blew, and finally the train doors slammed shut. The train slowly pulled out of the station for the long trip to Scotland.
The next morning, as the train approached Dundee Train Station, a tired Inspector Rumblepants spent ten minutes trying to wake the snoring Sergeant Widebottom. The previous night, they had not been able to fold their seats out into beds. After much grunting and panting, they decided that the rollout bed feature was not working. Instead, both policemen had slept curled up under their big police coats.
To make matters worse for the men, the window had jammed open. A thin layer of ice now made the view from the window blurred, and their breaths were cloud-like plumes in the freezing morning air.
All night, the train puffed its way slowly through the dark, cold countryside. For Sergeant Widebottom, this train trip was a solid, uninterrupted twelve hours of snoring, snorting, and grumbling. But Inspector Rumblepants had spent the time desperately trying to block out the sound of Sergeant Widebottom’s constant tossing, turning, and snorting. Rumblepants had endured the night huddled, cold, in his coat. His toes were freezing because cold air blew into the compartment through the jammed window. When morning finally arrived, he looked with bleary eyes out of the soot-coated window. He’d managed to wake Widebottom, and now he was tiredly watching his sidekick bounce around the small compartment, full of energy, smiling, with shaving foam covering his face.
