by Annie Wilson
As if in answer to his question, the door handle suddenly snapped off in Paddington’s paw. He was thrown backward on to the floor, just as the water turned a very dark shade of pink indeed.
The new look did not go down at all well with the prison inmates. Later that day in the canteen Paddington found himself surrounded by a bunch of hardened criminals all decked out in bright pink uniforms. The men glared dangerously at Paddington.
“Afternoon, chaps,” Paddington said as breezily as he could. “If you ask me, the pink brightens the place up a bit.” He swallowed as he saw T-Bone separate himself from the crowd.
The big scary man leaned toward the little bear, his face inches from Paddington’s. “If you ask me, Bear, you should pipe down and eat your dinner, because it might be your last.”
“Okay,” said Paddington. He was quaking as he turned and walked toward a table, his tray rattling in his paws.
He found a vacant spot, raised his cap shakily to the prisoners on either side of him, and looked down at his meal. It was a disgusting slop of gray sludge. He sniffed at it to try to work out what it was and recoiled in horror.
“Urgh!” he said.
A friendly-looking Australian who introduced himself as Phibs told him not to worry about the food. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he said. “And I should know—I used to be a restaurant critic.”
Paddington took heart from this and smiled. “Okay,” he said, trying a spoonful. He immediately spat it back out again and looked sorrowfully at Phibs.
“I say it’s not as bad as it looks,” Phibs said with a grin, “because it’s worse, isn’t it, Spoon?” he said to a man who was making a model of a windmill with matchsticks.
The man nodded.
“What is this?” Paddington asked.
Spoon shrugged as he added another matchstick to his model. “Nobody knows,” he said glumly.
His neighbor, a man with a mustache, piped up, “But we’ve been eating it three times a day for the last ten years.”
Paddington looked shocked at this. “Why doesn’t someone have a word with the chef? If he knew you all hated it, he might think about changing the menu.”
A dozy-looking prisoner dropped his mug in surprise. “Have a word with the chef?” he repeated. “Knuckles, you mean?”
Spoon shuddered and shot Paddington a warning glance. “Two things to remember, if you want to survive in here, mate: keep your head down and never talk to Knuckles.”
Paddington considered this piece of advice seriously. “Thank you,” he said. “I will remember that.”
But T-Bone’s eyes had lit up during this conversation. “Actually,” he said, “I think it’s a great idea. The bear could have a little chat with Knuckles on our behalf.”
Paddington looked at the other men’s faces. They looked doubtful. “Do you really think that would work, Mr. T-Bone?” Paddington asked.
T-Bone nodded enthusiastically. “Tell you what, son, you have a word with Knuckles about him changing the menu, and we might forget about you turning us into a bunch of flamingos.” He jabbed at his bright pink uniform and gave Paddington a distinctly nasty smile.
Paddington didn’t notice T-Bone’s expression, though. He was so keen on the prospect of making the peace that he was willing to try anything. He wanted nothing more than to be on good terms with everyone. “All right, then,” he said. “I’ll talk to him!”
He got up and began looking around for the chef. Knuckles wasn’t hard to spot: firstly because he was wearing a chef’s apron and secondly because he was a mountain of a man. He was so huge that he completely dwarfed the serving counter and the ladle he was holding looked more like a teaspoon in his vast hand.
Phibs reached out to stop Paddington. “Mate,” he said, his forehead creased in concern, “I really wouldn’t.”
Paddington smiled, however, and patted Phibs’s hand. ‘Don’t worry. Aunt Lucy said if you look for the good in people you’ll always find it.”
Spoon shook his head and muttered, “She’s obviously never met Knuckles.”
Every single prisoner went quiet as Paddington made his way over to the chef. Their cutlery stopped halfway to their mouths. They put their knives and forks down and sat, as quiet as mice, waiting to see what would happen next.
Paddington went up to the counter and rapped on it with his paw to get the man’s attention. “Excuse me, Mr. Knuckles?” he said.
The man turned slowly and Paddington took in a sharp breath to steady himself as he came face-to-face with him.
“Yes . . . ?” growled the chef, his face twisted into an angry expression.
Not one prisoner dared move a muscle. Every one of them was holding his breath.
The warden brought his radio to his mouth and whispered nervously into it. “Send a medic to the canteen,” he said. “Quick!”
Paddington gulped as he saw the look on the huge chef’s face. “I just wondered if I could have a quick word about the food?” he asked in a small voice.
“You want to complain?” Knuckles asked, smiling slowly.
Paddington shook his head. “Oh, no, no! I wouldn’t say that.”
“That’s a shame,” said Knuckles. His smile widened, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I love it when people complain,” he said. His huge fist circled a rolling pin, gripping it tightly.
“Oh really?” said Paddington. He relaxed. “In that case, I think you should know that the food is unfortunately rather gritty AND lumpy, and as for the bread . . .” He picked up a baguette and hit it against Knuckle’s head, knocking his cap askew. “Need I say more?” Paddington continued, oblivious to the mounting tension in the room behind him—and Knuckles’s tightening grip on the rolling pin. “I think we need to completely overhaul the menu,” Paddington went on, warming to his theme. “Now I know we’re working to a tight budget, but I think we could at least add some sauce.”
Paddington picked up a bottle of ketchup and accidently squirted some on to the chef’s apron.
“Oops, sorry about.” Paddington grabbed a cloth and tried to wipe off the sauce, but a stain was quickly spreading. “Never mind, I know how to get rid of that,” he went on, picking up a bottle of mustard.
He squirted it on top of the ketchup, but then had second thoughts. “Hang on—maybe it’s not mustard?” he pondered. Then, turning to the rest of the room, he asked the other men, “Does anyone know what gets rid of ketchup stains?”
But not a prisoner was to be seen—they were all hiding under the tables!
Paddington looked puzzled, while the warden whispered frantically into his radio, “Forget the medic—better call for a priest.”
Paddington turned back to Knuckles.
The chef growled, leaned forward, and snapped the rolling pin in two!
Paddington realized his mistake. “I’m s-sorry, Mr. Knuckles, sir—” he began, cowering.
The chef leaned right over the counter and lifted Paddington into the air. “Now listen to me, you little maggot,” he snarled.
“Listening,” Paddington croaked.
“Nobody criticizes my food,” said Knuckles.
“Right,” said Paddington, nodding enthusiastically.
“Nobody squirts condiments on my apron,” Knuckles continued.
“Got it,” rasped Paddington.
“Nobody bonks me on the head with a baguette.”
“No bonking.” Paddington nodded again.
“I’ll overhaul the menu all right,” said Knuckles through gritted teeth.
“W-will you?” Paddington stammered.
“And you know what the dish of the day will be . . . ? Bear pie!” the chef finished with a roar.
Paddington gasped, and without thinking, he reached quickly under his hat and whipped out a marmalade sandwich that he had managed to hide from the warden since his arrival. He squashed it straight into the chef’s mouth.
Then he closed his eyes and waited for the end . . .
The whole room waited wi
th him.
No one dared move.
There was a chewing sound, followed by a gulping and a swallowing noise and then Paddington heard Knuckles growl, “What was that?”
Paddington opened one eye. “A marmalade sandwich,” he said.
“Marmalade?” Knuckles repeated, his expression softening.
“My Aunt Lucy taught me how to make it,” Paddington said, opening his other eye. He reasoned that perhaps if he could keep the man talking, he could save himself.
Knuckles slowly lowered Paddington on to the counter. “You mean you can make more of these?” he asked, his eyes glinting.
A murmur ran through the canteen as the prisoners wondered what was going to happen next.
“I can,” said Paddington. The thought of his Aunt Lucy had made him feel suddenly much braver.
Knuckles turned his attention to the rest of the room. “Get off the floor, you bunch of yellow-bellies, and listen up!” he roared to the prisoners. “This bear is now under my protection. Anyone who touches a hair on his back will answer to me—Knuckles McGinty. That’s Knuckles with a capital ‘N,’ all right?” he snarled.
“Thank you, Mr. McGinty,” Paddington gasped.
“Don’t thank me yet. I don’t do nuthin’ for no one for nuthin’,” Knuckles replied. “You get my protection so long as you make me that marmalade. Deal?” Knuckles spat on his hand and offered it to Paddington, who, looking puzzled, spat on it too before saying, “Deal!”
Knuckles glared at Paddington, then throwing back his head he bellowed with laughter. “You’re a funny one and no mistake! Now . . . let’s get to work!”
CHAPTER 11
Madame Kozlova Tells Her Story
Mrs. Brown told the family about her conversation with Mr. Gruber.
“If there’s one person who can tell us more about the pop-up book, it is Madame Kozlova herself,” she said. “I’m going to go and see her to ask her what she knows.”
Mr. Brown wasn’t sure it was such a good idea, but even he had to admit that they couldn’t sit around doing nothing while poor Paddington was in prison. “All right,” he said. “But I’m coming with you,” he said, grabbing his coat.
“And me!” said Judy.
“Me too!” said Jonathan.
The glamorous fortune-teller was not exactly pleased to see them. She observed them with a tight-lipped expression.
“Ah, so you’re the family whose bear stole my pop-up book?” she said.
“No, no!” Judy cried. “That’s why we’re here. We think the real thief broke into Mr. Gruber’s shop to steal the book and Paddington disturbed him.”
“Paddington wouldn’t do such a thing,” Mrs. Brown assured Madame Kozlova. “That’s why we wanted to talk to you. Is there anything you could tell us about the pop-up book? Anything that could be useful to help us track down the thief?”
Madame Kozlova could see that the family really believed that Paddington was innocent. She was not an unkind woman, so she relented.
“All right,” she said with a smile. “Let’s see, now . . . my great-grandmother who started this fair made the pop-up book,” Madame Kozlova said in her heavy Russian accent. “She made lots of them—to remember every single city she visited.” She paused. “But you may be right that there is something that would interest a thief about this one—there is quite a particular story behind it,” she said.
“Go on,” said Mr. Brown, leaning forward.
“My great-grandmother was quite a show-woman,” said Madame Kozlova with a smile. “She could tame lions, you know. And breathe fire and swallow swords. However, she was most famous for the trapeze. They called her the Flying Swan. Imagine,” she said, waving her arm in a dramatic gesture. “It is the 1930s . . . Wherever my great-grandmother went she was showered with gifts . . .”
The Browns sat back, picturing what the glamorous fortune-teller was describing.
“She was every man’s favorite. Over the years, she made a fortune from all the presents she was given. One man even gave her a necklace of real diamonds,” Madame Kozlova said, her eyes shining.
“How romantic,” breathed Mrs. Brown.
“Ah, but where there is fortune there is also jealousy,” said Madame Kozlova, grimacing. “There was a magician who worked for the fair who was a brilliant but envious man. He wanted my great-grandmother’s fortune for himself!”
“Oh no,” whispered Mrs. Brown. She was completely caught up in the story. “What did he do?”
“Something terrible,” said Madame Kozlova, lowering her voice. “One day, he cut through the trapeze rope.” She made a scissors motion with her hand. “The Flying Swan became the Dying Swan . . .”
Mrs. Brown gasped. “No!”
“Yes,” said the fortune-teller. “My great-grandmother plummeted to the floor. The magician was the first on the scene. He rushed over, pretending to be concerned. But while he was checking my great-grandmother for signs of life, he took a key chain from round her neck. Then he slipped away into the crowd before anyone could stop him.”
Mr. and Mrs. Brown exchanged glances.
“He went straight to my great-grandmother’s caravan,” the fortune-teller continued, “and he opened up her safe, but instead of her treasure all he found inside was her pop-up book of London.”
“Serves him right,” said Mrs. Brown grimly.
Madame Kozlova nodded. “Quite so,” she said. “The police came after him,” she went on, “but he disappeared in a puff of smoke, leaving only the book behind. To this day no one knows where my great-grandmother’s fortune is hidden.”
“That is a tragic story,” said Mrs. Brown, dabbing at her eyes.
“Yes, and it doesn’t get us any closer to understanding what on earth the thief wants with the book,” said Mr. Brown grimly. “Thank you, Madame Kozlova. You have been most generous with your time.”
The family headed back to 32 Windsor Gardens, their hearts heavy as they wondered what they could do now to prove Paddington’s innocence.
Later that evening, Mrs. Brown was sitting up in bed, drawing a picture of Madame Kozlova. “There’s got to be something we’re missing,” she said thoughtfully.
Mr. Brown called out from the bathroom. “So you keep saying, but what exactly? The stuff about the Flying Swan was a good yarn, but as for the book . . . Madame Kozlova told us—it’s just a homemade pop-up book.”
“I know,” said Mrs. Brown. “But have you thought about why it was kept in a safe?”
Mr. Brown came out of the bathroom wearing a blue face mask. “You’re not telling me you believe all that guff she told us about the magician?” he said scornfully.
Mrs. Brown ignored him. “She put twelve London landmarks in that book,” she said. “What if they are clues?”
“Clues?” Mr. Brown pulled a face. “Clues to what?”
“To where the great-grandmother had hidden her fortune!” Mrs. Brown said.
“You mean, like a treasure map?” Mr. Brown said. He was still skeptical.
“Exactly,” said Mrs. Brown. She sat up excitedly. “That would explain why the thief took it from Mr. Gruber’s.”
Mr. Brown began wiping off his face mask. “I keep telling you—that fortune-teller spun you a yarn. It’s what they do,” he said.
Mrs. Brown looked annoyed suddenly. “Honestly, darling, you’re so close-minded these days.”
Mr. Brown bristled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What happened to Bull’s-eye Brown?” Mrs. Brown retorted. “The man who sent coconuts flying with one hurl of a ball? He’d have believed me.”
Mr. Brown picked up a hand mirror and checked the wrinkles around his eyes. “He’s gone, Mary,” he said, turning back to his wife. “You’re married to a creaky old man, not Bull’s-eye Brown.”
Mrs. Brown tutted.
Mr. Brown ignored her. “The point is, we’re not going to help Paddington by going on a wild-goose chase. We’re looking for this scruffy chancer,” he said,
pointing to the picture on the poster Mrs. Brown and Judy had made, “not some swashbuckling pirate who’s hunting for treasure.”
“Well, I think there’s more to him than meets the eye,” Mrs. Brown huffed. “I think he somehow knew the story of the Kozlova fortune and is out there now, trying to find it.”
Mr. Brown shrugged. “It can’t be the same man as in Madame Kozlova’s story—that magician would be about one hundred and fifty by now. Remember she said everything happened in the 1930s.”
“We should be out there this minute, trying to catch him in the act, Henry!” Mrs. Brown protested.
Mr. Brown snorted. “Not right now, we’re not,” he said, getting into bed next to his wife. “I’m going to get some beauty sleep. Goodness knows I need it.” And with that, he turned out the light and put an end to the conversation.
Meanwhile, as the Browns slept, a procession of nuns was slowly climbing the steps of St. Paul’s Cathedral. It was a dark, moonless and silent night. The black of the nuns’ habits gave them a mysterious air as they walked softly along, merging with the shadows of the cold stone walls of the cathedral. It would not be difficult for one of them to slip away unnoticed . . .
Phoenix Buchanan knew this, which is why he had come to find his next clue dressed as one of the nuns! He waited until he was sure no one could see him, and then he sneaked out of the procession and ran up a staircase to the Whispering Gallery.
“Grandfather,” he said to himself, “I am doing this in your memory. They never appreciated your full worth as a magician. Why should all the money and jewels have gone to that ridiculous Flying Swan woman? Her act was no better than yours, I’m sure. People just don’t recognize true artistic talent when they see it. And I should know . . .”
He sighed dramatically and made a beeline for an angel statue that he had seen in the pop-up book. Then he swiftly ducked down to look at the bottom of the statue, where he had spotted a letter, much like the one on Tower Bridge. It was carved into the marble base.
“‘A,’” he whispered, making a note. “Two down, ten more to go—”
“Oi! What d’you think you’re doing?”
Phoenix jumped up, startled by a security guard who was waving at him and shouting into a walkie-talkie at the same time.