Inspector Rumblepants and the Case of the Golden Haggis

by Mike Blyth

  “What a comfortable way to travel! Best night’s sleep I have had for ages,” beamed the Sergeant, trying not to cut himself as he shaved his stubble off in the midst of the rolling train.

  “Yes, fresh as a daisy,” muttered the Inspector darkly, glancing across at the Sergeant through bloodshot eyes. “Wish I could travel by train more often!”

  They heard a polite knock, and the train conductor opened the door. “Ten minutes until Dundee,” he said cheerfully.

  He looked around the compartment. “The gentlemen didn’t use their beds last night?” he inquired.

  “They seem to be broken,” yawned the Inspector. “We tried to open them, but they obviously malfunctioned.”

  The conductor pulled on a blue cord next to a ceiling sign that said, “Pull for Bed,” and two large beds slowly unfolded. They were wide, with soft blankets and big, fluffy pillows.

  “Seems to be fixed now, Sir,” said the conductor, pulling the cord again. The beds folded themselves back into the train’s wall.

  “Nice,” muttered the Inspector, rubbing his tired eyes and yawning. He smiled thinly at the conductor. “It would have been good if you had pointed out that cord last night.”

  “The sign says, ‘Pull for Bed,’ Sir,” replied the conductor politely. He smiled. “I shall remember to do so for you on your trip back.” He then closed the door behind him.

  The policemen quickly finished shaving and changing into fresh clothes. Then they packed and headed down the corridor. They struggled with their cases, bumping them through the lurching train’s corridors. The train shunted, steam billowing, into the small train station at Dundee. A loud whistle blast announced the train’s arrival, and the doors were flung open by well-dressed porters. Only a few people were at the station, because most of the passengers already had disembarked the train at the Edinburgh Station. The policemen easily noticed a man in a long, brown coat and a trilby hat, standing near the granite entrance to the train station. He was tall and slender.

  Inspector Rumblepants shook hands with the Scottish detective. “Inspector Rumblepants and Sergeant Widebottom,” he said. “Pleased to meet you.”

  Widebottom fell out of the carriage door, with their cases landing on him. He brushed sweet wrappers from his uniform as he struggled to his feet and shook hands with the Scotsman. The Scottish detective did not smile, but rather looked at the two English policemen coldly. He was disgusted that a sweet wrapper had stuck to his hand when he shook hands with Widebottom. He pried the wrapper off.

  “I am Inspector Thistle McDonald from the Doogle Clan,” said the tall policeman. “I have been assigned to work with you on this case by Old Scotland Yard’s Rather Quite Serious Crimes Department.”

  “Glad to team up with you,” said Inspector Rumblepants, smiling brightly.

  Inspector Thistle McDonald looked at the two policemen for a moment. “Were you not both involved in The Case of the Stolen Big Ben Clock?” he asked with a sneer in his voice.

  Inspector Rumblepants looked slightly embarrassed. “Um . . . yes we were,” he mumbled.

  “Didn’t I read in the newspaper that you were looking on the wrong street all along? And that no one actually stole the 150-foot clock? That finally an Inspector Sherlock Holmes and Mr. Watson worked out the problem?” asked Inspector Thistle McDonald with a slight smile.

  “Well,” stuttered Rumblepants, “it is believed that someone may have stolen the clock and then returned it the next day . . . possibly. These things happen to the best of policemen,” he added, turning red with embarrassment.

  Inspector Thistle McDonald smirked coldly. “I have a carriage and will go to the castle directly. It will take several hours to get there.” He shook his head. “I hope you solve this crime as quickly and professionally as you did the Big Ben case,” he added with a snicker.

  McDonald turned and marched off without another word, walking quickly through the train station archway and into the crowded streets of the city of Dundee.

  “Not very friendly, is he?” said Sergeant Widebottom cheerfully, picking up the cases and ambling after McDonald through the crowded streets.

  “Yes, and I shall long regret the day that I allowed you to hold the Sights and Sounds of London tourist map, possibly for the rest of my life,” muttered Inspector Rumblepants under his breath, remembering that the cause for the Big Ben clock fiasco was his partner’s forgetfulness and inability to read a map.

  Chapter 6

  The Crime Scene

  It was only as Inspector Thistle McDonald was loading the old creaky carriage that was to carry them to the castle that Sergeant Widebottom noticed something strange about what McDonald was wearing underneath his coat. “Inspector Rumblepants,” he whispered in surprise, “I think he is wearing a girl’s skirt.”

  Inspector Rumblepants looked at the Sergeant in shock. “Don’t be silly. Why would a grown man wear a girl’s skirt in public?” he asked, tying down his suitcase to the carriage.

  “In public?” asked the Sergeant, puzzled. “Well, maybe his trousers got wet and he had to borrow his wife’s clothes,” the Sergeant offered by way of explanation. “Probably that’s why he is wearing a long coat—because he is embarrassed.” He thought for a moment as he handed his suitcase to the carriage driver. “Do you have some spare trousers you could lend Inspector McDonald?” he whispered. “I think your size might fit him.”

  Inspector Thistle McDonald leaned out of the carriage window. “I can hear you, you know,” he said angrily, his face red. “And what I am wearing is not a skirt. It is a Scottish kilt, and I am not in the least embarrassed about wearing it!”

  His head disappeared—then reappeared a moment later. “Further, I am wearing a long coat because it’s a bit windy, and the coat’s length stops the draft.”

  The trip to Stirling in McDonald’s carriage was long, cold, and uncomfortable. The carriage had no springs. It hit every rock and rut on the muddy road. McDonald would not converse with the English detectives, and so they all sat in grueling silence as the hours slowly passed. Sergeant Widebottom tried to apologize, stating that if Scottish men wanted to wear skirts . . . or rather kilts . . . that such a custom was fine with him. He even offered that after a few apple root beers, he had put on a dress once, but McDonald would not even look at him, so he dug out his lunch from his funny police hat and started munching away. Inspector Rumblepants watched him hungrily.

  Eventually, the carriage clattered up the narrow streets of Stirling and clattered through the forbidding gates of the castle. It was business as usual at the castle. Tough soldiers lined the castle walls. The sound of stomping feet and shouting sergeants filled the castle’s courtyard. Sergeant Widebottom saw that all of the soldiers were wearing kilts, and he smiled at Inspector Thistle McDonald. But McDonald looked away angrily.

  A bugler let out a tuneless squawk from his small trumpet as the carriage came to a halt outside the main castle hall. A few moments later, the sound of clicking heels could be heard echoing on the stone floors. A tall, dignified army colonel strutted around a corner with a neatly maintained moustache and short, silver-grey hair. He wore an impressive uniform. He carried a small stick under one arm. His other arm swung up sharply to his shoulder as he came abruptly to a halt, his feet stomping loudly. His body leaned forward. Beside him was a pretty young woman with brown hair in a ponytail, wearing a grey outfit and carrying a small purse.

  “Colonel Smithering Blyyd at your service, gentlemen,” barked the Colonel, thrusting out his hand. All three police officers shook his hand before he turned and introduced the young lady.

  “Agent Amber from Her Majesties’ Secret Service,” he said. “She’s here as a special advisor to join you on the investigation.” He pulled on his grey moustache, rows of medals jingling on his chest.

  “She’s top-secret help being provided from London,” he went on. “I’m not to tell anyone,” barked the Colonel loudly, his voice ringing around the courtyard. “I have been ordered to
forget everything she has told me once the case is solved, and I suggest you do the same!” he added briskly, glaring at each of the men.

  Inspector Thistle McDonald smirked. “A girl on the case,” he remarked quietly. “Well, at least our rooms will be kept tidy.”

  They followed the Colonel into Stirling Castle. “I have some socks that need mending,” he muttered hopefully to Amber.

  But Agent Amber smiled back sweetly. “Sorry, I forgot to bring my needle with me.”

  The Colonel was very efficient and detailed. Using a huge map of the castle hanging from his office wall, he explained how the intruder had gained access. He used his small stick to point to various points on the map, while spewing out details in a loud voice. “He entered here, moved through here, and used a strange weapon here,” he instructed them, striking the canvas map sharply until it tore. “Drat! That’s the fourth map this week,” he sputtered angrily. “Corporal, bring me another map,” he shouted through the door. “This one is defective!”

  He looked at the group, faintly sheepish. “Sopping wet weather here makes the maps less robust than the ones in England, you know.”

  Agent Amber was making notes in a small notebook. Inspector Rumblepants broke his third pencil, muttering, “Blast it!” under his breath. He leaned over to Amber and whispered, “You don’t happen to have a spare pencil?”

  She smiled and took one from her jacket, handing it over. “Just don’t use the eraser at the end,” she told him. “I am not sure whether this pencil is the one equipped with the exploding eraser.” Then she turned back to her note taking.

  The Inspector peered closely at the end of the pencil before he started to take notes again, being very careful as he wrote.

  The three detectives and the secret agent trailed after the Colonel as he took them to see the castle wall where the Thief’s grappling hook had been found. The Colonel let them walk the same corridors the Thief had crept along that night. Finally the group arrived at the huge iron door and vaulted chamber where his strange weapon had caused the guards to run for the toilets.

  “And here, gentlemen—oh, and lady—is where my finest guards were overcome by a dastardly weapon,” admitted the Colonel, slapping his stick against his palm with a cracking sound. He winced in pain and put the stick back under his arm. “That hurt! I really must stop doing that,” he muttered to himself under his breath, rubbing his sore hand behind his back.

  “May we inspect the crime scene, Colonel?” asked Inspector Rumblepants politely.

  “Of course. Go right ahead,” insisted the Colonel. “When you are finished, you can find me in my office. Dinner is served at eight in the officer’s dining room, if you would care to join me. The menu is roasted fowl, and we’ll have a nice brandy after dinner.” He paused and said briskly, “Super! Jolly good! Top notch! And get cracking on solving the case.” He marched away, still rubbing his red hand.

  Inspector Rumblepants went to the middle of the small room that had contained the Golden Haggis before it was stolen. He pulled out a large container of white powder from the special investigative equipment trunk and carefully placed it on a solid stone table that sat in the middle of the room. On the table sat a rusty tin can that had a faded picture pasted to the side. The picture looked like beans. The chamber was cold and empty, except for brightly colored checkered material, which hung like drapes from the ceiling to the floor, and some burning torches, which lit the room with flickering light.

  Inspector Rumblepants looked closely at the rusty can through his magnifying glass. He looked up at Sergeant Widebottom, “Do not—I repeat, do not—eat these beans!”

  Sergeant Widebottom smiled. “I brought a snack with me this time, Sir,” he said, taking his helmet off and reaching inside.

  The Inspector’s stomach rumbled. He said, “Just making sure. You have a habit of eating our evidence, Sergeant.”

  “This is fingerprint dust,” said Inspector Rumblepants, pointing to the large can of white powder. “I borrowed it from Sherlock Holmes before he went on holiday a couple of days ago.” Rumblepants tapped the side of the container with one finger. He peered at the tin can left by the Thief and then looked around the room thoughtfully. “He said go lightly with it,” said the Inspector, turning the container around, “but there don’t seem to be any instructions on how to use it.”

  “I am sure it’s simple enough to use,” said Sergeant Widebottom, smiling at the Inspector. “You are a better detective than Sherlock, after all,” he said brightly.

  “Yes, that’s true,” said Inspector Rumblepants. “I used to beat him at chess when we were at school.”

  He tugged at the lid of the container, which was stuck tight. (“Well, up until we left elementary school,” he admitted to himself quietly, while trying to pull the lid off the container.)

  The lid was stuck, and the Inspector’s face went red as he pulled harder. Suddenly, the lid flew off the container and a huge cloud of white powder went up into the air. The Inspector started to cough. “A bit too much, perhaps,” he gasped between coughs, his clothes covered in powder.

  McDonald and a Scottish guard moved to one side to avoid the white cloud that was slowly settling to the floor, making it look like it had snowed in the room. Meanwhile, Agent Amber knelt in one corner, looking at a scuff mark on the floor with interest.

  “Find any clues?” asked Inspector Rumblepants hopefully, patting white powder from his jacket and sneezing.

  “Yes, I think I have found some interesting clues,” said Agent Amber, scraping some black material into a small bag with a little knife.

  Widebottom wandered over and looked at the bean can. “These beans are produced in the village of Firt’a-way’e, near to Loch Ness,” he observed. He looked closely at the label. “They are vintage beans, a special collector’s edition, and they are very expensive because they are left to mature for twenty years in an oak drum in a dark cellar.”

  Agent Amber said, “There are many footprints leading to the door, in size eight.”

  McDonald left the area to avoid choking on the powder. Inspector Rumblepants was trying to put the lid back on the powder container. He looked up at the Sergeant, who was snacking instead of working. “Just where do you put all that food?” he asked in amazement as the Sergeant started to eat a large green apple.

  “I use an extra large police helmet, Sir,” answered the Sergeant with a smile. “Comes in very handy on long trips.”

  The Inspector shook his head as the Sergeant pulled a flask of hot chocolate from his helmet before returning to the task of gathering evidence. “I wonder how much of the powder you are actually meant to use?” Rumblepants asked no one in particular. He mused about whether the great Inspector Sherlock Holmes had used fingerprinting powder to find Big Ben.

  “I wonder if the instructions are on the bottom of the container,” suggested Sergeant Widebottom. But when Inspector Rumblepants turned over the container to look, he spilled the last of the white powder to the floor in a large pile. He started to cough again. He glared at the Sergeant, who was happily sipping steaming hot tea from a small mug.

  An hour later, Inspector Rumblepants, Sergeant Widebottom, and the small chamber were still covered in a thick layer of white dust. Outside the chamber, a small team of castle cleaners had arrived, looking very unhappy at the mess the Inspector had made.

  Clouds of it floated like mist into the corridor, making passing soldiers cough and sneeze. Agent Amber walked with the English detectives as they left the chamber carrying several small bags of evidence. They each used a small white lace handkerchief to breathe through, but still they were occasionally sneezing.

  “You only use a little bit of the powder,” she said kindly, patting white dust from Inspector Rumblepants’s shoulder. “It will take them hours to air out that room,” she added, looking over her shoulder at the chamber.

  When they reached the castle courtyard, she smiled at the two policemen sweetly. “I am going to freshen up. We can
compare notes on what we found over dinner, if you like.”

  The two policemen smiled through powder-covered faces, pale as ghosts. “Delighted!” Rumblepants agreed. “I am sure that among all of us, we can find enough clues to solve the case quickly.”

  “Is the fingerprint dust edible?” asked Sergeant Widebottom. “My sandwich seems to be covered in it.” He looked at the bottom of his helmet and frowned as he pulled out another huge sandwich that the Inspector’s mother had packed for him in his suitcase before they had left London.

  “I should see whether your mother can wrap them up in greased paper next time, just in case you need to use the powder again,” he added, shaking off some of the fingerprint dust before taking a big bite of the sandwich.

  The Inspector looked at the sandwich hungrily. “I believe the Colonel said someone would be here in half an hour to show us to our rooms. I am off to find myself a cup of tea and to wash off the dust,” he said grumpily. The Inspector headed off into the castle.

  Sergeant Widebottom sat down on a bench to relax, patting off some dust from his blue uniform. He pulled out a small flask of coffee from his jacket and took a drink. He smiled as he watched the sun start to set over the castle walls.

  Chapter 7

  The Scottish Secret Service

  The 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.”