Millicent ushered Paddington into the Great Hall of the Natural History Museum and locked the massive doors behind them. He took a sharp intake of breath as the moonlight illuminated a dinosaur skeleton bigger than a London bus. Apart from the exhibits, the place was deserted.
“Welcome to your new home, Bear,” said Millicent. “This is the Cathedral of Knowledge. Every major explorer has added to its glory. Captain Cook brought the kangaroo from Australia, Scott brought the Emperor Penguin from Antarctica . . .”
“Is that Father Christmas?” asked Paddington as she hurried him past a statue of a man with a beard sitting on the landing.
“That is Charles Darwin,” she said. “He is now immortalized through his finds. But do you see a single creature collected by my father?”
There were so many on display, Paddington wasn’t quite sure where to look.
“No!” said Millicent in a voice that was seething with rage. “And I’ll tell you why, Bear. Because when he saw your oh-so-precious species, he refused to collect a specimen.”
“A specimen?” said Paddington, not entirely sure what that meant.
“He returned from Peru and showed his film footage to the gentlemen of the Geographers’ Guild, who of course wanted a specimen to display in the museum!” Millicent snarled, and slapped her own forehead. “But oh, no—my father said you bears were intelligent and civilized, and he would never harm you! The Guild revoked his membership on the spot.
“Daddy could have been rich and famous! But he threw it all away and got a job in a petting zoo.” She almost spat her last words.
“Sounds nice,” said Paddington, looking at the prehistoric monkey skulls.
Millicent narrowed her eyes.
“Well, it wasn’t! We lived above the donkeys. I had to walk through their stinking pen on my way to school and all the children used to mock me.”
She chanted in a singsong voice like a six-year-old, “Dung breath! Dung breath! Millicent’s got dung breath!”
She pounded up the next flight of stairs.
“That’s when I realized my father had been wrong to do what he did,” she said. “And I vowed that one day, I would get hold of the specimen that ruined my childhood and put it here where it belongs!”
She whipped a dust sheet off an enormous specimen cabinet adorned with a plaque; it was engraved with the words Ursus Marmalada. The fur on the back of Paddington’s neck stood on end.
“That’s right, Bear,” said Millicent, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck. “I’m going to stuff you!”
Paddington managed to wriggle out of her grasp. He ran off, but she pulled out her dart gun, aimed, and fired. This time, she hit the target. Paddington gave a yelp, clutched his bottom, and, with a big yawn, he tumbled down the stairs.
Moments later, the Browns pulled up outside the museum, a little carsick but impressed by Henry’s motor racing skills. They jumped out of the car—there was a light burning in the upper window. Mrs. Bird rooted around in her handbag and pulled out a telescope. She could see someone—a woman—carrying Paddington over to a table. He didn’t appear to be moving.
“Bear in the crow’s nest,” she said.
“What’s he doing? Is he OK?” said Mrs. Brown anxiously.
Mrs. Bird had another squint and thought she could detect signs of life.
“He’s sleeping, but not in a good way,” she said, collapsing the telescope. “All hands on deck. There’s not a moment to lose.”
“How are we going to get in?” said Jonathan.
Henry cast his eye over the imposing building adorned with terracotta birds and beasts of all description. It was home to some of the rarest specimens in the world.
“It’ll be locked like a fortress,” he said. “With alarms and cameras and . . .”
“Sewers!” said Judy, suddenly.
Everyone looked at her blankly.
“Didn’t you say they could take you anywhere in the city, Mum?”
“I did, didn’t I? And they do! Good thinking, Judy!” said Mrs. Brown, searching on the pavement for a manhole. Judy turned to Jonathan, who was checking the contents of his backpack.
“Mum just called me by my name.”
“Weird,” he said. “Where’s Mrs. Bird going?”
She was heading for the security gatehouse. Mrs. Bird had a trick up her sleeve, not to mention a bottle of a special drink. Inside was a security guard with a rottweiler dozing at his feet. She tapped on the window and put on a feeble voice.
“Excuse me, young man?”
Seeing an elderly lady standing outside shivering in her shawl, he opened the door.
“You all right, pet?”
“Could you help a frail old woman?” said Mrs. Bird pitifully. “I’ve missed the bus. It’s so cold, there’s icebergs floating in ma blood.”
The guard helped her up the steps.
“Come and sit by the fire for a bit.”
“Oh, my bunions,” she complained. “I’m seventy-five, you know.”
Mrs. Bird had quickly whispered her plan to Henry. He hastily explained it to the rest of the family, and the Browns crouched down by a wall, a security camera standing between them and their destination.
“Wait ’til it moves,” said Henry.
“I do hope Mrs. Bird’s all right in there,” said Mary.
“She sailed round Cape Horn singlehanded, Mum!” said Judy.
Mrs. Bird slipped off her shoes. Warming her feet by the fire, she studied the bank of monitors and worked out which lever operated the CCTV camera overlooking the manhole. Then she produced her special drink and waved it at the guard.
“Do you fancy a wee nip of antifreeze for the old pacemaker, laddie?”
“Not while I’m on duty,” he smiled.
Mrs. Bird unscrewed the cap and took a swig.
“Too strong for you, eh?”
“Fighting talk,” he grinned, relenting. “I’ll get us a couple of glasses.”
As he turned his back, Mrs. Bird reached over and shifted the joystick on the CCTV.
“The camera’s moving away, Dad,” said Jonathan.
“Let’s go!” said Henry.
They all ran to the manhole cover, lifted it between them, and helped each other down the ladder into the old sewer below.
“Why on earth would anyone want to kidnap Paddington?” puffed Mrs. Brown, running to keep up with Henry. “If that woman hurts him, I’ll never forgive her.”
“Hurt him? Over my dead body,” said Henry.
But even as he spoke, Millicent was pulling out her knife and walking over to Paddington, who was snoring on the table in the secret stuffing room. She sharpened the blade lovingly, crooning a little song: “How much is that Bear-y in the window? The one with the staring glass eyes. . . .”
“Nearly there!” said Mrs. Brown, running along the sewer tunnel. It was dark and dank, but apart from a bit of sludge, there was no raw sewage.
“This place is amazing,” said Judy. “I thought it would stink . . . what’s up, Dad?”
Henry had reached the manhole cover directly under the museum and was trying to force it open with his shoulder.
“It won’t shift,” he said. “It must be locked. Blast it.”
Jonathan reached into his backpack and pulled out an old box full of test tubes, vials of liquid, and colored powder.
“That’s my old chemistry set!” said Henry.
“It’s lethal, is what it is,” said Jonathan, rigging up a charge. “You did say blast it. Got a light, Judy?”
She felt in her pockets and gave him a box of matches.
“Darling?” said Mrs. Brown in distress. “I never knew you smoked.”
“They’re for lighting joss sticks,” said Judy hurriedly. “When I meditate.”
“You do? Oh, that’s good for stress,” said Mrs. Brown, nodding in approval.
Jonathan lit the fuse and counted down.
“Five, four, three, two . . .”
Henry waved
his arms frantically.
“Jonathan!”
“What, Dad?”
“Go for it, son!”
They ran to the bottom of the stairs, put their hands over their ears, and waited for the boom . . . BANG!!! The manhole shattered like a poppadom.
“That did the trick!” said Jonathan, poking his head through the blackened hole in the floor of the Great Hall. “Hey, I can see the diplodocus from here!”
They climbed out and ran over to a fuse box hidden behind an extinct giant moa from New Zealand.
“Kill the lights,” said Henry.
Jonathan reached for the switch.
Millicent raised her knife above Paddington’s sleeping body. She was about to strike when the room was suddenly plunged into darkness. She slammed the knife into the counter beside him and fumbled in a drawer for her torch. Then, yanking the stuffed rhino’s tail that opened the door from the inside, she marched out, flashing the beam.
The Browns hid at the bottom of the grand staircase. They held their breath until she passed, then, creeping out of the shadows, they hurried up the stairs to the top floor where Mrs. Bird had last seen Paddington through her telescope.
“It’s at the end of that corridor,” said Henry, pressing his nose to a glass door barring their way. He rattled the handle; it was locked.
“You’ll have to blow it, Jonathan,” he said. “Mind out, Mary.”
Jonathan shook an empty tin at him.
“I can’t. I’ve used all the explosive.”
Thinking on his feet, Henry opened the window and leaned out.
“Henry, you are not going out there!” said Mrs. Brown.
“Do it, Dad!” said Jonathan.
Henry took off his overcoat and handed it to his wife.
“Someone’s got to,” he said. “And that someone is me.”
He took Mrs. Brown in his arms and kissed her.
“My hero!” she gasped.
“Ugh!” grinned Judy, but as Henry stepped out onto the ledge, she stopped.
“Seriously, Dad. Get back in. It’s snowing.”
“Sensible and boring?” he said jauntily, clinging to a stone carving of a snake around the window as he sidestepped along. Against his better judgment, he looked down. The cars below looked no bigger than Dinky Toys.
“Actually, this is insane,” he muttered, hastily inching back toward the open window.
He bent his knees to climb back in, but seeing his family watching him with such adoration, he straightened up again.
“Dad is properly cool,” said Jonathan.
“He certainly is,” gushed Mrs. Brown.
Henry sighed. He was going to have to do this. He edged his way back toward the balcony, blinking the snowflakes from his eyes. He was almost there! Reaching out to grasp a stone-carved octopus tentacle, he realized his mistake too late as he saw it was an icicle. It snapped off in his hand.
“OMG!” shrieked Judy. “Dad’s fallen!”
“Henry?” cried Mrs. Brown, craning out of the window.
He was clinging to a gargoyle a few feet below.
“I’m all right, Mary,” he said, pulling himself back up.
“Mum, is Dad somehow related to Spider-Man?” said Jonathan.
“I’m beginning to wonder . . .” she said.
Henry reached the window of the stuffing room and looked in. Through the gloom, he could see Paddington lying still on the table, surrounded by sharp instruments. Was he too late? He tapped urgently on the pane.
“Paddington . . . ! Paddington!”
Nothing. No movement.
“Paddington?”
No response. Mr. Brown felt his eyes prickle. This was all his fault. He wouldn’t blame his family if they hated him but right now, nobody hated him more than himself.
“I’m so sorry,” he sniffed.
Paddington shifted on the table and raised his head.
“Is that you, God?” he called blearily. “You sound much more like Mr. Brown than I’d imagined.”
“It is Mr. Brown,” hissed Henry. “Look behind you!”
Paddington sat up. He was half awake, but when he saw who was on the balcony, he thought he was still dreaming. He rubbed his eyes.
“Mr. Brown! What are you doing there?”
“We’ve come to rescue you,” he said. “Mr. Curry explained everything. I’m so sorry I didn’t believe you. I wish you’d never left. I want you to live with us.”
Paddington brushed away a tear.
“Do you really?”
“We all do,” smiled Henry.
Meanwhile, Millicent had discovered the gaping hole in the hall where the manhole cover had exploded by almost falling down it. Spotting the mucky footprints leading up to the fuse box, she found to her fury that someone had turned the power off . . . which must have happened after she’d locked the door . . . which meant there was somebody still in the building!
“Sabotage,” she hissed, hitting the alarm.
She flicked the power switch. As the lights came back on, automatic security shutters began to lower on the doors and windows, including the ones in the stuffing room.
“Quick, Paddington!” yelled Henry through the window. “Get out of there!”
CHAPTER TEN
Home
Paddington rolled off the table and hurried toward the lowering shutter as fast as he could, shaking his head to clear the grogginess. As he dived beneath it, his hat fell off. He went to grab it but was too slow, and the shutter closed on his paw. He was trapped! The pain took his breath away, but the thought of ending up in the specimen cabinet gave him the burst of strength he needed. Struggling frantically, he pulled himself free.
Paddington examined his paw. Apart from one claw, nothing was broken, and trying to ignore the throbbing, he raced along the upper gallery of the Great Hall.
“You!” yelled Millicent from below.
She raised her tranquilizer gun, but as she fired, Paddington leaped over the balustrade, landed on the back of the diplodocus, and ran down its spine as darts ricocheted off its skeleton.
Tumbling off the end of its tail, he ran under a stone arch and through a door marked Specimens. With Millicent hot on his heels, he zigzagged past countless jars filled with pickled animals—everything from slugs to coelacanths—their dead eyes staring at him, faces distorted against the glass.
Wondering whether he was in fact in the middle of a nightmare, Paddington pinched himself. To his disappointment, he was wide awake. He sped up, burst out of the door at the far end, skidded down the corridor, and ran into the nearest room.
It was a dead end—a small, windowless space filled with a boiler and bits of cleaning equipment. Paddington turned to go back the way he came, but it was too late; he could hear Millicent’s heels clacking toward him round the corner. He slammed the door shut and locked it.
“Give up, Bear. There’s no escape,” she said from outside.
He looked round desperately for a way out—the only route seemed to be the steel-lined chimney above the boiler, but he would never be able to climb it; it was too slippery even for his claws.
Suddenly, he noticed a pair of objects propped up in a recharging unit on the wall. He recognized them straight away: cordless Dustbusters! These ones were much bigger than Mrs. Bird’s—when Paddington turned one on to test the suction, he almost disappeared up the nozzle. Hearing the sound of the vacuum, Millicent peered through the keyhole.
“What are you doing?” she sneered. “Trying to make a clean getaway?”
Feeling to make sure the boiler was cold, Paddington fetched the other Dustbuster and turned them both on. Holding one in each paw, he stood under the open chimney vent and looked up. High above, he could see the moon shining like a ten pence piece. It was a long way off, but he had to aim for it, or he was stuffed.
Paddington steeled himself. Using the suction from the Dustbusters, he clamped himself to the inside of the vent. By switching them on and off alternately, he began to
climb slowly up the chimney, paw over paw. After a few yards, he’d gotten the knack of it and was feeling much more positive when he heard the time switch click below. The boiler had come on.
Flames began to rise from beneath, as Paddington increased his pace. He remembered the warm welcome the explorer had promised—it was a lot hotter than he would have liked right now, but the thought of going home with the Browns kept him reaching for the stars.
Mr. Brown had climbed in through an open window and was running down the corridor searching for Paddington when he bumped into Mary and the children coming the other way.
“Henry, there you are. I was so worried!” said Mrs. Brown.
“Where’s Paddington?” asked Jonathan.
Henry cast his eyes around wildly.
“I don’t know!”
They looked at each other helplessly, then Judy heard something.
“Shh! Clang . . . clang . . . clang,” she intoned, cupping her ear.
“Is that Mandarin, darling?” said Mrs. Brown.
Judy pointed up above.
“Can’t you hear it?”
They all listened. There it was . . . a metal clang . . . followed by another.
“He’s heading for the roof,” said Judy.
She ran toward the lift.
“No, this way,” insisted Henry, leading them to the fire escape.
“Statistically safer, Dad?” asked Jonathan, running after him.
“Quicker.”
As the Browns clattered up the spiral staircase, Paddington had almost reached the top of the chimney. He only had a few feet to go when the Dustbuster in his left paw spluttered and died. Dangling by one arm, he dropped it; three full seconds later, it fell into the boiler below and melted.
Paddington gulped. One false move and he was toast. Realizing that the Dustbuster in his right paw was about to lose suction too, he flipped himself up and landed on top of it. It began to slide down under his weight. Setting his jaw and focusing on the top of the chimney, he took a leap.
He fell short. Scrabbling to get a grip on the smooth sides, his claws screeched against the steel as he began to fall. He closed his eyes and began a prayer to Uncle Pastuzo to carry him to Bear Heaven, when he felt himself being lifted.
“Up you come,” said Jonathan, leaning over the chimney as Mr. Brown held him firmly round the waist.
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