by Annie Wilson
Then, putting on a Shakespearean voice, Phoenix answered as Hamlet. “It is not nor it cannot come to good.”
Continuing as himself he said, “Oh, you and your dreary conscience, Hamlet. Tell me this—what would you prefer? That you sit here gathering dust while I humiliate myself in a spaniel costume, or that we all return in glory with the greatest one-man show the West End has ever seen?”
Phoenix began bowing and smiling as he imagined applause from a large audience.
“I know what you’re thinking, Scrooge,” he said to another mannequin. “It’ll cost a fortune to put on such a show. But if I’m right, that’s exactly what this book will provide.” He waved the pop-up book triumphantly. “All I have to do is follow the little lady in the pictures to each of the landmarks in London and look for the clues she has left me. Once I have all the clues, the hidden Kozlova treasure will be mine!”
He peered closely at the first page of the book. “There she is,” he said. “Hello!” He waved at the figure of a tiny trapeze artist. She had been drawn as though she were balancing on a walkway on Tower Bridge directly over a coat of arms.
“So that is where the treasure hunt begins, is it?” Phoenix said with glee. “Tower Bridge . . . I wonder what disguise I should use for this little escapade?”
He glanced around the room and his eyes settled on a suit of armor.
“That’ll do nicely,” he said.
CHAPTER 8
Paddington and the Long Arm of the Law
All too soon it was the date of Paddington’s trial.
He was standing in the dock, feeling so nervous he was sure the whole courtroom could hear his knees knocking together. Would the jury believe that he was innocent and that someone else had broken into Mr. Gruber’s shop? He hoped that Mr. Gruber would say all the right things and that he would soon be going home to 32 Windsor Gardens. He looked up sorrowfully and saw the Browns and his friends and neighbors looking down at him from the gallery.
“He looks so tiny,” said Mrs. Brown anxiously.
“And confused and afraid,” added Mr. Brown.
“Try not to worry,” said Dr. Jafri. He smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. “We all know that Paddington is innocent. His name is sure to be cleared.”
“And Mr. Gruber will speak up for him,” said Miss Kitts. She patted Mrs. Brown’s arm.
Paddington couldn’t make out what they were all saying, but he saw from Mrs. Brown’s face that she was worried. He didn’t like to think that it was him who had caused her so much anxiety. He told himself to stay positive and that soon she and the rest of the family would be smiling and happy again.
“Deep breath, Paddington,” he said to himself. “Remember what Mr. Brown said—you’re young, you’ve done nothing wrong, you’ll be fine. So long as you get a fair-minded judge.”
The judge suddenly called out, “Order! Order!” All the murmured conversations in the courtroom ceased and everyone rose to their feet. Paddington crossed his claws, hoping that Mr. Brown was right. But as soon as he looked up and saw the judge’s face he feared all hope was lost. It was the same man who had come into Giuseppe’s barber’s shop on that fateful morning! He was unlikely to be well disposed toward Paddington after the incident with the clippers and the hairy marmalade.
“Oh dear,” said Paddington under his breath. Perhaps he won’t recognize me, he thought.
If the annoyed look on the judge’s face was anything to go by, however, it would seem that he very much had recognized Paddington. “Quiet!” he roared. “We will now hear the case of the Crown versus Paddington Brown.”
The crown prosecutor called Mr. Gruber to the stand. The old antiques dealer glanced across at Paddington and flashed him a brief smile.
Paddington willed his friend to say all the right things. Come on, Mr. Gruber, he thought. If anyone can persuade the judge of my innocence, it’s you.
“Mr. Gruber,” said the prosecutor. “Would you say the defendant had a particular interest in the pop-up book?”
“Oh yes, he loved the book,” said Mr. Gruber, smiling eagerly. “I would say that he had his heart set right on top of it.”
Mrs. Brown sighed and bit her lip. That was not an answer that was likely to do Paddington any favors, she thought.
The prosecutor went on. “So, you discussed how expensive the book was?”
“Ye-es,” said Mr. Gruber. He paused as he realized the direction in which the questioning was going, and then he said, “But Paddington was earning the money to buy it. I refuse to believe that young Paddington Brown would ever burglarize my shop.”
Mr. Brown squeezed his wife’s hand and she gave him a brave smile. Mr. Gruber’s evidence was very helpful to Paddington’s case, but the next person called to the stand was a forensic investigator.
“Paw prints were found here”—the investigator was pointing to a plan of Mr. Gruber’s shop—“here . . . and here. And a substance, later identified as marmalade, was found here.”
The prosecutor opened a jar. “And this is the same marmalade?” he asked.
“That’s mine!” Mrs. Bird hissed. “How did they get hold of that, I’d like to know?”
The forensic investigator dipped a finger in and tasted the marmalade. “Yes, it is.”
There was a murmur of voices in the gallery. Paddington looked up at the noise. He was horrified to see the expressions on people’s faces. The marmalade evidence had not gone down well—it seemed that several of Paddington’s neighbors were beginning to be swayed against him.
Finally Phoenix Buchanan was asked to take the stand.
Paddington relaxed slightly. Mr. Buchanan was a friendly neighbor and he had been very kind to Paddington at the fair. Surely he would convince the jury that they had got the wrong bear?
The actor took the stand, flashing a grin at the jury, clearing enjoying being the center of attention. There was some giggling and people whispered behind their hands as they recognized who Phoenix was.
The clerk called for silence. “Phoenix Buchanan,” he said. “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”
“I do,” said Phoenix, putting on an exaggeratedly serious tone. “May my entrails be plucked forth and wound about my neck should I deceive.” Then, turning to the gallery, he gave a cheeky smile and added, “Prison is no laughing matter. And I should know. I spent three years in Les Misérables.”
The courtroom erupted into delighted laughter. Phoenix certainly knew how to turn a crowd to his advantage.
The counsel for the prosecution stood and addressed the actor. “Mr. Buchanan, you live on the same street as the defendant?”
“I do,” said Phoenix.
The prosecutor nodded. “And you were an eyewitness to the events that night?”
“Indeed I was,” Phoenix replied, all seriousness and formality again. “I was up late when I became aware of a hullabaloo on the street below. I went to my awards room, which is a large room that overlooks the newspaper kiosk,” he added, looking around the room for a reaction. There was no response, so he continued. “And I saw Paddington riding a rather disreputable-looking hound.”
The prosecutor handed Phoenix a drawing of the thief. “Mary Brown drew this based on the bear’s description of the man he claims he was chasing. Did you see him on the street that night?”
Phoenix took the drawing. “Well, let me see,” he said, stroking his chin. “Hmm. Handsome devil, isn’t he? Dazzling eyes—”
“Yes,” the prosecutor interrupted. “But did you see him? Your answer will tell us whether the bear is guilty. Did you see this man?”
Phoenix raised his eyes and looked at Paddington, then gazing around the courtroom sorrowfully he answered, “Alas, I did not.”
The court descended into uproar.
“Silence!” roared the judge, banging his gavel.
Phoenix stepped slowly down from the stand, avoiding Paddington’s horrified stare.
This isn
’t possible, Paddington thought. How can this be happening?
He looked up at the Browns. Mrs. Brown had tears in her eyes and Mr. Brown had his head in his hands. Mrs. Bird was the only one who had an expression of fiery determination on her face.
“I don’t trust that man,” she muttered. “I’ve never trusted actors.”
CHAPTER 9
The Hunt Is On
Later that night, while poor Paddington was being led away to Portobello Prison to start his sentence, Phoenix was plotting the next phase of his wicked plan.
He had taken his suit of armor from his attic room and was on his way to Tower Bridge, where he believed the first of the clues to be hidden.
“I am going to get my hands on that treasure and then I shall be able to kiss the world of dog-food commercials goodbye once and for all!” he said to himself as he approached the North Tower of Tower Bridge.
He ducked behind a pillar when he saw that a security guard was doing his rounds, and quickly changed into the suit of armor.
The guard walked past, shining his torch ahead of him as he went. As soon as he had gone, a visor opened on one of the suits of armor—it was, of course, the one with Phoenix Buchanan inside. His disguise had worked every bit as well as his thief’s costume, and the guard had not suspected a thing!
The actor waited until the coast was clear, and then he ran awkwardly in the armor to a large Gothic window. Heaving it open, he climbed out on to an elevated walkway. The dark waters of the Thames swirled below. Taking a deep breath, Phoenix edged along the walkway to the coat of arms in the middle of the bridge, where the tiny trapeze artist had been standing in the picture in the pop-up book.
He leaned over. “Now, where is that clue?” he said to himself as he scanned the stonework. “Aha!” He had caught sight of something—a letter carved into the back of the coat of arms. “The letter ‘D’!” He fished inside his disguise for a notebook and pencil and jotted the letter down. “The hunt is on!” he said with a nasty smile. “Soon the treasure will be mine.”
Paddington was not having so much luck. His appeal to the judge’s better nature had not worked and Phoenix’s last comment had sealed his fate as far as the jury were concerned. They had found him guilty. He now found himself in prison, wearing a gray striped uniform and prisoner’s cap.
“Paddington Brown?” said a stern warden, handing him a rolled-up blanket.
Paddington gulped and nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said.
“Ten years for grand theft,” the warden said, looking at his notes. “And grievous barberly harm.” He raised an eyebrow and looked back up at Paddington. “Follow me.”
A buzzer sounded and a barred door slid open. Paddington followed the warden into the prison atrium and up some stairs to the cells. They went along a walkway until the warden stopped outside a door. He unlocked it and Paddington stepped inside. The cell was very gloomy indeed. There was one narrow bed and a tiny window that was too high up for Paddington to see out of. He suddenly felt incredibly homesick for his little attic room at 32 Windsor Gardens.
“The Browns usually read me a story before I go to bed,” Paddington said to the warden. “I don’t suppose—”
“Sorry, son,” said the warden firmly. “No bedtime stories here.” And with that he closed the door firmly behind him, locked it, and walked away.
Paddington climbed on to the bed and settled down to write a letter to his aunt. He had promised he would write regularly—he couldn’t let going to prison get in the way of that. He decided, however, that he couldn’t face telling Aunt Lucy the whole truth, so he did his best to put a positive spin on things.
Dear Aunt Lucy,
A great deal has happened since I last wrote. There’s been a bit of a mix-up with your present and the upshot is I’ve had to leave Windsor Gardens and move . . . somewhere else. It’s not quite as charming as the Browns’ house, but it’s not at all bad. It’s a period property—in fact, it’s one of the most substantial Victorian buildings in London. And the security arrangements are second to none.
I’m only allowed to see the Browns once a month. I wonder what they’re doing now? I hope they don’t forget me. I hope they’ll sort everything out and I’ll be able to go home and get your present and everything will be as right as rain. I just need to hold on until then.
All my love,
Padingtun
Paddington need not have worried. Of course the Browns had not forgotten him. They were extremely worried and were doing everything they could think of to prove his innocence.
Mrs. Brown was already hot on the case; she had given her drawing of the thief to Judy, who had made it up into a poster with the heading “Have you seen this man?” Mrs. Brown was determined to put copies up all around London in a bid to catch the real thief.
She went first to Mr. Gruber and asked if she could put up a poster in his shop.
“Somebody’s got to recognize him sooner or later,” said Mrs. Brown as she fixed the picture to the glass on the front door.
“Hmm,” said Mr. Gruber. He was deep in thought and didn’t appear to be listening.
Mrs. Brown turned back to face him. “Are you all right, Mr. Gruber?” she asked with a frown.
Mr. Gruber scratched his head. “There’s something about this whole business that’s been tickling my brainbox,” he said thoughtfully.
“What is it?” Mrs. Brown asked. She took a sketchpad out of her bag and pulled a pencil from her hair, poised and ready for any information Mr. Gruber could offer.
Mr. Gruber began to speak slowly and carefully. “On the night of the robbery. When young Mr. Brown called out, the thief took to his heels and ran downstairs . . .”
Mrs. Brown imagined the thief running through Mr. Gruber’s flat. “. . . and he came straight through the shop,” she said, continuing Mr. Gruber’s train of thought, “and out the front doors, setting off the alarm.”
Mr. Gruber cut in. “Ah, but that’s the thing,” he said, wagging his finger, “he didn’t go straight through the shop.”
Mrs. Brown looked puzzled. “No?” she said.
Mr. Gruber shook his head. “He came all the way over here,” he said, gesturing to the back of the shop, “to get the popping book. Why not take some jewelry or a vase? They’re much closer and far more valuable.”
Mrs. Brown’s eyes widened as she saw what Mr. Gruber was saying. “Oh!” she said.
“He can’t know much about antiques,” said Mr. Gruber, looking unimpressed.
“No . . . ,” Mrs. Brown agreed. “Unless he knew something about that book that we don’t.”
They exchanged a glance as the same idea dawned on them both—the book must contain some kind of very valuable secret.
And I intend to find it out, Mrs. Brown thought to herself. Whatever the secret is, it will be sure to prove the thief’s motive for stealing the book—and that Paddington is innocent beyond doubt!
CHAPTER 10
It All Comes Out in the Wash
Paddington certainly was not finding it easy, settling into prison life. Nevertheless, he had decided to make the best of a bad situation. He was going to do everything he could to fit in with the other prisoners, he told himself as he followed them out of the atrium that morning.
And I must remember my manners, he thought. Aunt Lucy says it’s important to always be kind and polite. That will be sure to make me friends.
As soon as he had formed his resolution, however, he came face-to-face with a rather scary-looking tattooed prisoner. Paddington took a deep breath and reminded himself of Aunt Lucy’s advice.
He looked the terrifying prisoner in the eye and, raising his prison uniform cap, he said, “Good morning. I’m Paddington Brown. How do you do?”
“Very funny. Ha-ha,” said the man sarcastically. “I’m T-Bone. And you’d better stay out of my way.”
“Oh, so I take it you won’t be interested in setting up a gardening club with me?” Paddington persisted.
T-Bo
ne glared at him. “And I take it you won’t be interested in being buried in a deep, dark hole?” he snarled.
Paddington most certainly wasn’t interested in that at all, so he decided it was best to remain silent.
“There you are,” said the warden, coming along the line to Paddington. “Brown, P.—laundry duty,” he said, ticking Paddington’s name off a list of jobs.
Well, that doesn’t sound too bad, thought Paddington. What could possibly go wrong on laundry duty?
Paddington found his way down to the prison laundry room. There were four machines, each clearly labeled: “Bedding,” “Towels,” “Uniforms,” and “Colors.”
“This seems simple enough,” Paddington said to himself. “I’ve seen Mrs. Bird do this at home, so I’m sure I can cope.”
He went over to a laundry chute and pulled it open. Right away an avalanche of dirty linen fell out of the chute, landing on top of his head and burying him. He burrowed his way out and began loading the clothes into the machine marked “Uniforms.” He poured in the detergent, closed the door and pressed “Start.”
“There,” he said, feeling pleased with himself. “Nothing to do now except sit back and wait.”
He took a step away from the machine and was about to sit down when, as the wash cycle began, Paddington noticed something going round and round with the prisoners’ uniforms. Something that should not have been in there. Something small and red.
It was a single red sock.
“No!” Paddington cried. “Mrs. Bird always says you should never put colors on a hot wash!”
He pushed all the buttons in a frenzy, trying unsuccessfully to stop the cycle. Then in desperation he tried to open the door.
The water was turning an ominous light pink . . .
Paddington tugged and tugged at the handle on the door, but it appeared to be locked fast. He tried to remain calm.
“It’s only one red sock,” he told himself. “What’s the worst that could happen?”