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

Golden Haggis, are ye not?” he asked quietly, just loud enough for him to be barely heard by Widebottom above the babble of people speaking and laughing in the pub.
    â€œWell, I am having haggis for dinner,” whispered back the Sergeant. “I hear it’s like a small dog, but it has one set of legs shorter than the others so it doesn’t fall down when running around the mountains.”
    â€œNo, ye are here because of the stolen Golden Haggis,” whispered the mysterious old man. “And that’s a silly idea about the real haggis. What would happen when it wants to go the other way? It would fall over, wouldn’t it, and roll down the hill?”
    Sergeant Widebottom scratched his head. “But that is a secret! No one is supposed to know that the Golden Haggis was stolen several days ago from Stirling Castle by a mysterious Thief who got past all of the defenses at midnight,” he stated, frowning.
    â€œAs a secret agent, I know everything,” stated the stranger proudly, looking around the crowded pub again suspiciously to see if anyone was listening to the two of them speaking.
    â€œWho stole the Golden Haggis, then?” asked Sergeant Widebottom. He took out a notebook eagerly, thinking of how impressed the Inspector would be if he came back having solved the mystery.
    â€œWell, I don’t know that,” said the stranger, puzzled.
    â€œWhere is it now, then?” asked the Sergeant, licking the tip of his pencil, ready to write down all the facts.
    â€œWell, I don’t know that either,” answered the secret agent, frowning.
    â€œDo you know why it was stolen?” asked Sergeant Widebottom, half hopefully, lowering his pencil.
    â€œAhh . . . not really,” admitted the agent. “I suppose when I told you that I knew everything, I was sort of exaggerating. I do know a lot of interesting things though—and some secrets.” The Scottish secret agent smiled brightly.
    Sergeant Widebottom leaned forward and whispered, “What type of secret agent are you?”
    The old man said quietly, “I am from the Scottish Secret Service. We usually only work weekends and a few days per week. My full-time job is as a butcher—so the Secret Service work is more of a hobby, really.”
    Sergeant Widebottom was confused. “The Secret Service work is just a part-time job?” he asked. “Why are you not doing it all the time?”
    â€œBecause not much happens here in Scotland. The top crime is that people steal sheep. With few other crimes, it gets a bit boring only to be a secret agent,” answered the old man, looking embarrassed. “This theft is the most interesting thing to happen in the last twenty years,” he added with a smile. “We secret agents are all very excited about it.”
    The Sergeant asked, “Can you suggest someone we should speak to next?”
    â€œAh yes,” he said. “You should speak to Professor Aberdeen at the University of Loch Ness. He knows everything about the Golden Haggis and will surely offer ye clues to help ye find it and solve the case.”

    The barkeep plonked a plate down on the table between the men. The dish was full of a grey, steaming, lumpy mound. It smelled musty. The old woman smiled and pushed her way back to the bar. Sergeant Widebottom looked down and prodded the squishy mound with a finger.
    â€œAm I meant to eat this?” he asked, looking up. But the stranger had already vanished. Widebottom looked down again, sniffed the food, and decided perhaps he wasn’t that hungry after all.
    After purchasing some dry bread and a mug of ginger ale, Sergeant Widebottom wandered back up to the castle. He nodded to the guards as he walked through the gates and by chance bumped into Inspector Rumblepants, who was passing the Guard House for the second time in the space of an hour.
    â€œGetting a spot of night air?” asked Sergeant Widebottom