Inspector Rumblepants and the Case of the Golden Haggis by Mike Blyth

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.
    â€œHaggis 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.
    â€œOf 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.
    â€œYe are here because of the