Paddington Complete Novels

It had been a very good day’s detecting, and Paddington decided he would have to pay another visit to the building site when all was quiet.

It was midnight. All the household had long since gone to bed.

“You know,” said Mrs Brown, just as the clock was striking twelve, “it’s a funny thing, but I’m sure Paddington’s up to something.”

“There’s nothing funny in that,” replied Mr Brown sleepily. “He’s always up to something. What is it this time?”

“That’s just the trouble,” said Mrs Brown. “I don’t really know. But he was wandering around wearing a false beard this morning. He nearly startled poor Mrs Bird out of her wits. He’s been writing things in his notebook all the evening too, and do you know what?”

“No,” said Mr Brown, stifling a yawn. “What?”

“When I looked over his shoulder there was nothing there!”

“Oh well, bears will be bears,” said Mr Brown. He paused for a moment as he reached up to turn out the light. “That’s strange,” he said. “I could have sworn I heard a police whistle just then.”

“Nonsense, Henry,” said Mrs Brown. “You must be dreaming.”

Mr Brown shrugged his shoulders as he turned out the light. He was much too tired to argue. All the same he knew he had heard a whistle. But as he closed his eyes and prepared himself for sleep, it never crossed his mind that the cause of it might be Paddington.

Lots of things had been happening to Paddington since he’d crept out of the Browns’ house under cover of darkness and made his way round to the building site. So many things had happened, one after the other, that he almost wished he’d never decided to be a detective in the first place. He felt very glad when, in answer to several loud blasts on his whistle, a large black car drew up at the side of the road and two men in uniform got out.

“Hallo, hallo,” said the first of the men, looking hard at Paddington. “What’s going on here?”

Paddington pointed a paw dramatically in the direction of the new house. “I’ve captured a burglar!” he announced.

“A what?” asked the second policeman, peering at Paddington. He’d come across some very strange things in the course of duty, but he’d never been called out in the middle of the night by a young bear before. This one seemed to be wearing a long black beard and a duffle coat. It was most unusual.

“A burglar,” repeated Paddington. “I think he’s the one that took Mr Brown’s marrow!”

“Mr Brown’s marrow?” repeated the first policeman, looking rather dazed as he followed Paddington through his secret entrance into the house.

“That’s right,” said Paddington. “Now he’s got my marmalade sandwiches. I took a big parcel of them inside with me in case I got hungry while I was waiting.”

“Of course,” said the second policeman, trying to humour Paddington. “Marmalade sandwiches.” He tapped his forehead as he looked at his colleague. “And where is the burglar now – eating your sandwiches?”

“I expect so,” said Paddington. “I shut him in the room and I put a piece of wood under the door so that he couldn’t get out. I got my beard caught in one of the sandwiches – so I switched my torch on to take some of the hairs out of the marmalade and then it happened!”

“What happened?” chorused the policemen. They were finding it rather difficult to keep up with Paddington’s description of the course of events.

“I saw someone flashing a light outside the window,” explained Paddington, as patiently as he could. “Then I heard footsteps coming up the stairs, so I lay in wait.” He pointed towards a door at the top of the stairs. “He’s in there!”

Before either of the policemen could ask any more questions there came the sound of banging and a voice cried, “Let me out!”

“Good heavens!” exclaimed the first policeman. “There is someone in there.” He looked at Paddington with renewed respect. “Did you get a description, sir?”

“He was about eight feet tall,” said Paddington, recklessly, “and he sounded very cross when he found he couldn’t get out.”

“Hmm!” said the second policeman. “Well, we’ll soon see about that. Stand back!” With that he pulled the piece of wood from under the door and flung it open, shining his torch into the room.

Everyone stood back and waited for the worst to happen. To their surprise, when the man came out it was another policeman.

“Locked in!” he exclaimed bitterly. “I see some lights flashing from an empty house, so I go to investigate… and what happens? I’m locked in… by a bear!” He pointed towards Paddington. “And if I’m not mistaken, that’s him!”

Paddington suddenly began to feel very small. All three policemen were looking at him, and in the excitement his beard had fallen off one ear.

“Hmm,” said the first policeman. “And what were you doing in an empty house at gone midnight, young fellow-me-bear? And wearing a disguise at that! I can see we shall have to take you along to the station for questioning.”

“It’s a bit difficult to explain,” said Paddington, sadly. “I’m afraid it’s going to take rather a long time. You see… it’s all to do with Mr Brown’s marrow – the one he was going to enter for the vegetable show…”

The policemen weren’t the only ones who found it all rather hard to understand. Mr Brown was still asking questions long after Paddington had been returned from the police station to the family’s safe keeping.

“I still don’t see how my losing a marrow has got anything to do with Paddington being arrested,” he said for the hundredth time.

“But Paddington wasn’t arrested, Henry,” said Mrs Brown. “He was only detained for questioning. Anyway, he was only trying to get your marrow back for you. You ought to be very grateful.”

She sighed. She would have to tell her husband the truth sooner or later. She’d already told Paddington. “I’m afraid it’s all my fault really,” she said. “You see… I cut your marrow by mistake!”

“You did?” exclaimed Mr Brown. “You cut my prize marrow?”

“Well, I didn’t realise it was your prize one,” said Mrs Brown. “And you know how fond you are of stuffed marrow. We had it for dinner last night!”

Back in his own room, Paddington felt quite pleased with himself as he got into bed. He’d have a lot to tell his friend, Mr Gruber in the morning. Once the inspector at the police station had heard his full story he had complimented Paddington on his bravery and ordered his immediate release.

“I wish there were more bears about like you, Mr Brown,” he had said. And he had given Paddington a real police whistle as a souvenir. Even the policeman who had been locked in said he quite understood how it had all come about.

Besides, he had solved the mystery of the flashing lights at last. It hadn’t been anyone in the garden at all, but simply the reflection of his own torch on the window. When he stood up on the end of the bed he could even see himself quite plainly in the glass.

In a way Paddington was sorry about the marrow. Especially as he wouldn’t get the reward. But he was very glad the culprit hadn’t been Mr Briggs. He liked Mr Briggs – and besides, he’d been promised another ride in his bucket. He didn’t want to miss that.

Soon after the marrow adventure the weather changed. It began to get colder. The leaves fell from the trees and it became dark very early in the evenings. Jonathan and Judy went back to school and Paddington was left on his own for much of the day.

But one morning, towards the end of October, a letter arrived with his name on the envelope. It was marked ‘Urgent’ and ‘Strictly Personal’ and it was in Jonathan’s writing. Paddington didn’t get many letters, only an occasional picture postcard from his Aunt Lucy in Peru, so it was all the more exciting.

In some ways it was a rather mysterious letter and Paddington couldn’t make head or tail of it. In it Jonathan asked him to collect all the dry leaves he could find and sweep them into a pile ready for when he came home in a few days’ time. Paddington puzzled about it for a long time, and in the end he decided to consult his friend Mr Gruber on the subject. Mr Gruber knew about most things, and even if he couldn’t tell the answer to a question right away, he had a huge library of books in his antique shop and knew just where to look. He and Paddington often had a long chat about things in general over their morning cocoa, and Mr Gruber liked nothing better than to help Paddington with his problems.

“A problem shared is a problem halved, Mr Brown,” he was fond of saying. “And I must say, that since you came to live in the district I’ve never been short of things to look up.”

As soon as he had finished his breakfast, Paddington put on his scarf and duffle coat, collected the morning shopping list from Mrs Bird, and set off with his basket on wheels towards the shops in the Portobello Road.

Paddington enjoyed shopping. He was a popular bear with the street traders in the market, even though he usually struck a hard bargain. He always compared the prices on the various stalls very carefully before actually buying anything. Mrs Bird said he made the housekeeping money go twice as far as anyone else.

It was even colder outside than Paddington had expected, and when he stopped to look in a newsagent’s on the way, his breath made the bottom of the window quite cloudy. Paddington was a polite bear, and when he saw the shopkeeper glaring at him through the door he carefully rubbed the steamy part with his paw in case anyone else wanted to look in. As he did so he suddenly noticed that the inside of the window had changed since he’d last passed that way.

Before, it had been full of chocolate and sweets. Now they were all gone and in their place was a very ragged-looking dummy sitting on top of a pile of logs. It held a notice in its hand which said:

REMEMBER, REMEMBER,

THE FIFTH OF NOVEMBER,

GUNPOWDER, TREASON, AND PLOT.

And underneath that was an even larger notice saying:

GET YOUR FIREWORKS HERE!

Paddington studied it all carefully for a few moments and then hurried on to Mr Gruber’s, pausing only to pick up his morning supply of buns at the bakery, where he had a standing order.

Now that the cold weather had set in, Mr Gruber no longer sat on the pavement in front of his shop in the morning. Instead, he had arranged a sofa by the stove in the back of the shop. It was a cosy corner, surrounded by books, but Paddington didn’t like it quite so much as being outside. For one thing, the sofa was an old one and some of the horsehairs poked through, but he quickly forgot about this as he handed Mr Gruber his share of buns and began telling him of the morning’s happenings.

“Gunpowder, treason and plot?” said Mr Gruber, as he handed Paddington a large mug of steaming cocoa. “Why, that’s to do with Guy Fawkes’ Day.”

He smiled apologetically and rubbed the steam from his glasses when he saw that Paddington still looked puzzled.

“I always forget, Mr Brown,” he said, “that you come from Darkest Peru. I don’t suppose you know about Guy Fawkes.”

Paddington wiped the cocoa from his whiskers with the back of his paw in case it left a stain and shook his head.

“Well,” continued Mr Gruber. “I expect you’ve seen fireworks before. I seem to remember when I was in South America many years ago they always had them on fête days.”

Paddington nodded. Now that Mr Gruber mentioned it, he did remember his Aunt Lucy taking him to a firework display. Although he’d only been very small at the time he had enjoyed it very much.

“We only have fireworks once a year here,” said Mr Gruber. “On November the Fifth.” And then he went on to tell Paddington all about the plot to blow up the Houses of Parliament many years ago, and how its discovery at the last moment had been celebrated ever since by the burning of bonfires and letting off of fireworks.

Mr Gruber was very good at explaining things and Paddington thanked him when he had finished.

Mr Gruber sighed and a far-away look came into his eyes. “It’s a long time since I had any fireworks of my own, Mr Brown,” he said. “A very long time indeed.”

“Well, Mr Gruber,” said Paddington, importantly. “I think we’re going to have a display. You must come to ours.”

Mr Gruber looked so pleased at being invited that Paddington hurried off at once to finish his shopping. He was anxious to get back to the newsagent’s quickly so that he could investigate the fireworks properly.

When he entered the shop the man looked at him doubtfully over the top of the counter. “Fireworks?” he said. “I’m not sure that I’m supposed to serve young bears with fireworks.”

Paddington gave him a hard stare. “In Darkest Peru,” he said, remembering all that Mr Gruber had told him, “we had fireworks every fête day.”

“I dare say,” said the man. “But this isn’t Darkest Peru – nor nothing like it. What do you want – bangers or the other sort?”

“I think I’d like to try some you can hold in the paw for a start,” said Paddington.

The man hesitated. “All right,” he said. “I’ll let you have a packet of best sparklers. But if you singe your whiskers don’t come running to me grumbling and wanting your money back.”

Paddington promised he would be very careful and was soon hurrying back up the road towards the Browns’ house. As he rounded the last corner he bumped into a small boy wheeling a pram.

The boy held out a cap containing several coppers and touched his hat respectfully. “Penny for the guy, sir.”

“Thank you very much,” said Paddington, taking a penny out of the cap. “It’s very kind of you.”

“Oi!” said the boy as Paddington turned to go. “Oi! You’re supposed to give me a penny – not take one yourself.”

Paddington stared at him. “Give you a penny?” he said, hardly able to believe his ears. “What for?”

“For the guy, of course,” said the boy. “That’s what I said – a penny for the guy!” He pointed to the pram and Paddington noticed for the first time that there was a figure inside it. It was dressed in an old suit and wearing a mask. It looked just like the one he’d seen in the shop window earlier that morning.

Paddington was so surprised that he had undone his suitcase and placed a penny in the boy’s hat before he really knew what he was doing.

“If you don’t like giving a penny for the guy,” said the small boy as he turned to go, “why don’t you get one of your own? All you need is an old suit and a bit of straw.”

Paddington was very thoughtful as he made his way home. He even almost forgot to ask for a second helping at lunch.

“I do hope he hasn’t hit on another of his ideas,” said Mrs Brown, as Paddington asked to be excused and disappeared into the garden. “It’s most unlike him to have to be reminded about things like that. Especially when it’s stew. He’s usually so fond of dumplings.”

“I expect it’s an Idea,” said Mrs Bird, ominously. “I know the signs.”

“Well, I expect the fresh air will do him good,” said Mrs Brown, looking out of the window. “And it’s very good of him to offer to sweep up all the leaves. The garden’s in such a mess.”

“It’s November,” said Mrs Bird. “Guy Fawkes!”

“Oh!” said Mrs Brown. “Oh dear!”

For the next hour Paddington enjoyed himself in the garden with Mrs Bird’s dustpan and brush. The Browns had a number of trees and very soon he had a large pile of leaves, almost twice his own height, in the middle of the cabbage patch. It was while he was sitting down for a rest in the middle of the flower bed that he felt someone watching him.

He looked up to see Mr Curry, the Browns’ next-door neighbour, eyeing him suspiciously over the fence. Mr Curry wasn’t very fond of bears and he was always trying to catch Paddington doing something he shouldn’t so that he could report him. He had a reputation in the neighbourhood for being mean and disagreeable, and the Browns had as little to do with him as possible.

“What are you doing, bear?” he growled at Paddington. “I hope you’re not thinking of setting light to all those leaves.”

“Oh no,” said Paddington. “It’s for Guy Fawkes.”

“Fireworks!” said Mr Curry, grumpily. “Nasty things. Banging away and frightening people.”

Paddington, who had been toying with the idea of trying out one of his sparklers, hastily hid the packet behind his back. “Aren’t you having any fireworks then, Mr Curry?” he asked, politely.

“Fireworks?” Mr Curry looked at Paddington with distaste. “Me? I can’t afford them, bear. Waste of money. And what’s more, if I get any coming over in my garden I shall report the whole matter to the police!”

Paddington felt very glad he hadn’t tested his sparkler.

“Mind you, bear” – a sly gleam came into Mr Curry’s eye and he looked round carefully to make sure no one else was listening – “if anyone likes to invite me to their firework display, that’s a different matter.” He signalled Paddington over to the fence and began whispering in his ear. As Paddington listened his face got longer and longer and his whiskers began to sag.

“I think it’s disgraceful,” said Mrs Bird later on that day when she heard that Mr Curry had invited himself to the firework party. “Frightening a young bear like that with talk of police and such like. Just because he’s too mean to buy his own fireworks. It’s a good job he didn’t say it to me – I’d have told him a thing or two!”

“Poor Paddington,” said Mrs Brown. “He looked most upset. Where is he now?”

“I don’t know,” said Mrs Bird. “He’s gone off somewhere looking for some straw. I expect it’s to do with his bonfire.”

She returned to the subject of Mr Curry. “When I think of all the errands that young bear’s run for him – wearing his paws to the bone – just because he’s too lazy to go himself.”

“He does take advantage of people,” said Mrs Brown. “Why, he even left his old suit on the porch this morning to be collected by our laundry for cleaning.”

“Did he?” exclaimed Mrs Bird, grimly. “Well, we’ll soon see about that!” She hurried out to the front door and then called out to Mrs Brown. “You did say the porch?”

“That’s right,” replied Mrs Brown. “In the corner.”

“It’s not there now,” called Mrs Bird. “Someone must have taken it away.”

“That’s very strange,” said Mrs Brown. “I didn’t hear anyone knock. And the laundryman hasn’t been yet. How very odd.”

“It’ll serve him right,” said Mrs Bird, as she returned to the kitchen, “if someone’s taken it. That’ll teach him a lesson!” In spite of her stern appearance, Mrs Bird was a kindly soul at heart, but she became very cross when people took advantage of others, especially Paddington.

“Oh well,” said Mrs Brown. “I expect it’ll sort itself out. I must try and remember to ask Paddington if he’s seen it when he comes in.”

As it happened Paddington was gone for quite a long time, so that when he did finally return, Mrs Brown had forgotten all about the matter. It had been dark for some time when he let himself into the garden by the back way. He pushed his basket up the path until he reached Mr Brown’s shed, and then, after a struggle, managed to lift a large object out of the basket, and place it in a corner behind the lawn-mower. There was also a small cardboard box marked GI FAWKES, which rattled when he shook it.

Paddington shut the door of the shed, carefully hid the cardboard box underneath his hat in the bottom of the basket, and then crept quietly out of the garden and round to the front door. He felt pleased with himself. It had been a very good evening’s work indeed – much better than he had expected – and that night, before he went to sleep, he spent a long time writing a letter to Jonathan in which he told him all about it.

“Gosh, Paddington,” exclaimed Jonathan, several days later, when they were getting ready for the display. “What a super lot of fireworks!” He peered into the cardboard box, which was full almost to the brim. “I’ve never seen so many.”

“Honestly, Paddington,” said Judy admiringly. “Anyone would think you’d been collecting in the street or something.”

Paddington waved a paw vaguely through the air and exchanged a knowing glance with Jonathan. But before he had time to explain things to Judy, Mr Brown entered the room.

He was dressed in an overcoat and gumboots and he was carrying a lighted candle. “Right,” he said. “Are we all ready? Mr Gruber’s waiting in the hall and Mrs Bird’s got the chairs all ready on the veranda.” Mr Brown looked as eager as anyone to start the firework display and he eyed Paddington’s box enviously.

“I vote,” he said, holding up his hand for silence when they were all outside in the garden, “that as this is Paddington’s first November the Fifth, we let him set off the first firework.”

“Hear! hear!” applauded Mr Gruber. “What sort would you like, Mr Brown?”

Paddington looked thoughtfully at the box. There were so many different shapes and sizes it was difficult to decide. “I think I’ll have one of those you can hold in the paw first,” he said. “I think I’ll have a sparkler.”

“Dull things, sparklers,” said Mr Curry, who was sitting in the best chair helping himself to some marmalade sandwiches.

“If Paddington wants a sparkler, he shall have one,” said Mrs Bird, giving Mr Curry a freezing look.

Mr Brown handed Paddington the candle, taking care not to let the hot wax drip on to his fur, and there was a round of applause as the sparkler burst into life. Paddington waved it over his head several times and there was another round of applause as he moved it up and down to spell out the letters P-A-D-I-N-G-T-U-N.

“Very effective,” said Mr Gruber.

“But that’s not how you spell Paddington,” grumbled Mr Curry, his mouth full of sandwich.

“It’s how I spell it,” said Paddington. He gave Mr Curry one of his special hard stares, but unfortunately it was dark and so the full effect was lost.

“How about lighting the bonfire?” said Mr Brown hurriedly. “Then we can all see what we’re doing.” There was a crackle from the dried leaves as he bent down to apply the match.

“That’s better,” said Mr Curry, rubbing his hands together. “I find it rather draughty on this veranda of yours. I think I’ll let off a few more fireworks if there are no more sandwiches left.” He looked across at Mrs Bird.

“There aren’t,” said Mrs Bird. “You’ve just had the last one. Honestly,” she continued, as Mr Curry moved away and began rummaging in Paddington’s box, “the cheek of some people. And he never even brought so much as a Catherine wheel himself.”

“He does spoil things,” said Mrs Brown. “Everyone’s been looking forward to this evening. I’ve a good mind…” Whatever Mrs Brown had been about to say was lost as there came a cry from the direction of the garden shed.

“Crikey, Paddington,” shouted Jonathan. “Why ever didn’t you tell us?”

“Tell us what?” asked Mr Brown, trying to divide his attention between a Roman candle which had just fizzled out and the mysterious object which Jonathan was dragging from the shed.

“It’s a guy!” shouted Judy with delight.

“It’s a super one too!” exclaimed Jonathan. “It looks just like a real person. Is it yours, Paddington?”