The Pilgrms' Bear: Marmalade and London Signs
A bear with a suitcase, two detectives with too much history, and four spies who can’t read the signs — with thanks to The Pilgrm for the missing i.
Table of Contents
(Please Read Carefully)
Dedication - In which gratitude is politely extended to aunts, bears, detectives, misfits and cafes alike.
Introduction - In which London explains itself with too many signs, most of which no one reads.
The Missing “i” - In which a bear waits, two detectives arrive, and the Pilgrms spell themselves wrong.
Induction - Where staplers are fought over, signs are misread, and politeness outsmarts deduction.
Signs in Transit - A walk across London; Wet Paint proves fresh, Road Closed isn’t, and punctuality is preserved.
The Invitation - Tea is promised, but codes are hidden; Holmes suspects Heathrow.
The Wild Table of Love - Paddington sits politely with the bronze koala; a man in red watches too closely.
Terminal Error - A flashback: cappuccinos, sandwiches, and the disgrace of four spies at Heathrow.
Eastbound - Where everyone goes west, except the title: the Piccadilly Line rattles west; Earl’s Court confuses, South Ealing becomes the point of no return.
Glass Cathedral - Heathrow Terminal 5 - a cathedral of signs, and a Pret a Manger where patience is tested.
The Rescue - A red-top man reaches for the bear; alarms shriek, croissants scatter, a robot intervenes.
Afterthoughts - Back at The Pilgrim, tea is poured, mistakes are claimed, and even broken signs point the way.
Publication Data - In which the small print proves longer than expected and probably more confusing than helpful.
Author’s Afterthought - In which thanks are given to signs, sandwiches, and a certain café that misplaced its vowels.
Author’s Direction: If lost, return to the beginning. If still lost, ask Aunt Lucy.
Dedication
For Aunt Lucy,
who taught us that politeness is sharper than deduction.
For Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson,
icons carried from foggy streets to neon screens,
endlessly rewritten, republished, and demanded across the generations —
yet still tireless in their pursuit of clarity.
For Paddington Bear,
who has been sent abroad, remade for screens, borrowed by nations,
and always expected to smile politely through it all —
with a suitcase, a sandwich, and unflagging courtesy.
And for the Pilgrms,
who are neither demanded nor remembered,
but drag themselves through every assignment nonetheless —
proof that even the most unlikely misfits can leave their mark.
In which thanks are given to those who endure being rewritten,
reimagined, and required, and still carry on.
And for The Pilgrm café,
for the good company, the strong coffee, the walls lined with brilliant album artwork —
and, of course, for the missing i,
without which the Pilgrms would never have been found.
In which gratitude is extended to aunts, bears, detectives, misfits, and one café that turned a missing “i” into a story.
Introduction
London has always been a city that speaks. Once it did so with painted shields above guildhalls, carved lions above taverns, or proclamations nailed to church doors. Now it speaks through stickers, hoardings, and endless notices on the Underground: Wet Paint. Road Closed. Mind the Gap.
Some read these signs carefully, for they are lifelines to visitors. Others stop seeing them altogether, for they blur into background noise once you know your way around. What is a guide to one becomes clutter to another. A warning to some becomes a joke to the rest.
This story begins with those differences.
It concerns a bear, two detectives, and four spies.
The bear is Paddington Brown, suitcase in paw, polite to a fault, who takes each sign at its word. A notice is a promise. An invitation means exactly what it says.
The detectives are Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson, long accustomed to the city’s shadows. To them, no sign is innocent: every word is suspect, every message a potential code.
And then there are the Pilgrms — MI5’s misprints, discarded to a forgotten office above a café whose own name has been spelt wrong. They no longer know how to read the world. An advert becomes an instruction. A poster is a warning. Even coffee froth looks like intelligence if you squint hard enough.
Together, they will walk the city that has always spoken but not always been heard. Streets and stations, sculptures and terminals: London through the ages, layered with meanings. Some signs they will obey, some they will resist, and some they will only understand afterwards.
For London is not merely a place to live, work, and play. It is a city of messages — some helpful, some false, many unread — and a city where not everything is quite what it seems.
— Michael Conan Herron-Bond
Chapter One: The Missing “i”
Paddington had chosen his corner seat carefully. From here he could see the wall of records, each tucked into a plastic sleeve, a handwritten review pinned beneath in biro or felt-tip. Some sleeves were famous — Adam Ant, Madonna, David Bowie — others utterly obscure, the kind of thing one might find in a forgotten attic box.
He liked it here. Among such company he did not feel so out of place. The reviews made him smile: they were not polished, not professional, but full of enthusiasm. He was reading one beneath Kings of the Wild Frontier by Adam & The Ants, 1980:
“This album is great. So much energy and invention.”
Paddington read it aloud softly. “That sounds rather nice. I should very much like to have more energy and invention myself.”
A shadow fell across the table. Looking up, he found two men regarding him with expressions of quiet surprise. One tall, with a hawk-like nose and sharp eyes that seemed never to rest; the other broader, moustache bristling, his gaze kind but wary.
There was a pause — the peculiar hush of recognition.
“Paddington Brown,” the tall man said at last. “Even in a café such as this, your presence is unmistakeable.”
Paddington rose and took off his hat politely. “Why — you’re Sherlock Holmes. And Dr Watson, I presume. I never thought we might meet, though my Aunt Lucy always said London was full of surprises.”
Holmes inclined his head. “Icons, bear. They cannot help but collide. We are dragged across generations, summoned, rewritten, demanded again and again. Your marmalade, our magnifying glass — endlessly reproduced.”
Watson gave a rueful smile. “It is a strange lot. To be loved, yes, but also flattened into symbol. People forget the person beneath.”
Paddington nodded gravely. “Aunt Lucy always says that if people look up to you, the best thing you can do is stand up straight and smile. People look at me and see sandwiches. I am very fond of them, of course, but sometimes I wish they would also see… me.”
For a moment the three of them stood in quiet sympathy, surrounded by the record sleeves and their scribbled reviews — pop stars, detectives, bears — all pressed into plastic for the world to browse.
Paddington glanced at his small suitcase, where a heavy card was tucked beneath the strap. You are warmly invited to tea, at the Wild Table of Love. He was very much looking forward to it.
But Aunt Lucy had always told him: “Paddington, it is much worse to be early than late when you are a guest. Hosts never like to be caught unready.”
So he had stopped here at The Pilgrim first, to pass the time among the records and reviews. It was a pleasant way to wait, and he thought Aunt Lucy would approve.
Holmes’s gaze flicked to the card. “Tea,” he said softly. “At a table of love.”
Watson raised an eyebrow. “And you believed it?”
Paddington straightened his duffle coat. “Of course. It was written very clearly. And Aunt Lucy always says one must trust an invitation.”
Holmes exchanged a glance with Watson. “Then perhaps, bear, we had better accompany you. London’s tables are not always what they claim to be.”
He turned toward the rear door, marked discreetly with a peeling sign. The Pilgrim at the front — all polished coffee cups and pop sleeves — gave way to the Pilgrm behind it: stripped bare, uncorrected, missing its “i.”
Holmes rapped once with his cane. “But first,” he said, “we must deal with the Pilgrms. Our assignment, Watson — to train the Service’s misprints. A rehabilitation programme, or so it is called.”
Watson muttered, “A way out of the Pilgrm that is no way out at all.”
Paddington tilted his head. “The Pilgrms? How very sad. I have always thought even the clumsiest of people can do wonderful things, if only given the chance. Might I come with you?”
Holmes studied him. “You may regret that offer, bear. But very well. Let us make our introductions.”
Upstairs, four shadows stirred in the stale electric light, waiting for a rehabilitation they scarcely believed in.
Chapter Two: Induction
The back staircase of The Pilgrim narrowed to a corridor of scuffed paint and apologetic notices. The front-of-house polish gave way to a world of taped A4 sheets and bad lighting. A crooked brass plaque on the final door read THE PILGRM — the missing letter winking like a dare.
Holmes rapped once with his cane and pushed through.
The room smelled faintly of burnt coffee and damp cardboard. A strip light flickered overhead with the obstinacy of an ageing bureaucrat. On the wall, a corkboard sagged beneath curling memos:
NO SMOKING BY THE TONER (someone had underlined TONER three times)
IF YOU BORROW THE STAPLER RETURN THE STAPLER
MUGS ARE NOT DISPOSABLE
FIRE EXTINGUISHER INSPECTION – DUE 2019 (a question mark added in biro)
Beneath the board stood a filing cabinet bearing three mug rings and a mug that read World’s Best Spy.
Four figures looked up.
“Wilkins,” said Holmes, as if taking attendance rather than greeting. The man was mid-fifties and frayed at the edges, his tie wearing a permanent crescent of coffee. He attempted to stand, knocked his knee on the drawer, and disguised the flinch by patting his pockets for cigarettes.
“Keene,” Holmes continued. Late forties, sharp cheekbones, short dark hair, a cigarette tucked behind her ear like a pencil. She appraised Holmes with a practised cynicism and did not bother to hide the lighter in her palm.
“Marsh.” Mid-thirties, enthusiastic, already unfolding a paper bag as if it might contain a classified document. Crumbs bracketed his mouth like quotation marks.
“And Blake.” Early thirties, cardigan too big, neat bobbed hair, earnest eyes. She stood in the exact shadow of a laminated STAFF ONLY sign, as if proximity conferred authority.
Watson inclined his head, doctorly and tired. Paddington took off his hat and laid it carefully on the corner of the table, beside his small suitcase.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Holmes said. “Your rehabilitation begins.”
Keene snorted softly. “Does it? We’ve had three rehabilitations this year. Each one involved a new spreadsheet and a lecture on posture.”
“This one involves thought,” Holmes replied. “A novelty, I know.”
Watson cleared his throat. “We’re here at the request of the Service. The idea—at least on paper—is to sharpen your observational habits. Think of it as a way out of the Pilgrm.” He paused. “Even if the lift only goes to the first floor.”
Wilkins’s gaze had drifted to Paddington. “Is that—? I mean—” He turned to Watson in a confidential whisper audible to the room. “Why is there a bear?”
“Because he asked nicely,” Paddington said, with perfect manners. “And because I thought I might be useful. I am on my way to tea at the Wild Table of Love, but Aunt Lucy always said it was ruder to be early than late. So I thought I’d wait here.”
Blake’s face opened into a smile. “Welcome,” she said, then glanced anxiously at the NO HOT DRINKS NEAR THE FILES sign and moved Paddington’s hat half an inch further from a ring mark.
Holmes lifted his cane and indicated the corkboard. “Exercise One. Read the room. You have sixty seconds. Tell me what the signs are telling you that they do not say.”
They looked at him, then at the board, as if it might sprout subtitles.
Keene went first. “NO SMOKING BY THE TONER means everyone smokes by the toner,” she said, tapping the burn mark under the vent with the end of her lighter. “Underlining toner three times was someone’s way of pretending they care. They don’t.”
“Acceptable,” Holmes said.
Wilkins squinted at the extinguisher tag. “Expired inspection. Nobody’s come down here for years. We’re forgotten.”
“True,” Holmes said, “though hardly an insight.”
Marsh rustled his bag. “MUGS ARE NOT DISPOSABLE suggests someone keeps nicking mugs,” he offered. “Which means someone else is passive-aggressive about kitchens. Which means the team is demoralised. Also there’s a biscuit tin under the desk. Possibly chocolate digestives.”
Holmes tilted his head. “Half deduction, half wishful thinking. I will take the former.”
Blake, serious as a school prefect, pointed to a hand-drawn arrow taped above the photocopier: WAY OUT →. “That’s wrong,” she said, flustered. “It points to a cupboard. The real way out is behind the fire door.”
Holmes’s eyes warmed by a fraction. “At last. A misdirection noticed. Remember it. In this place the wrong arrow is the rule.”
Paddington, who had been attending carefully, raised a paw. “If I may. The sign about the stapler says return the stapler, which suggests the stapler is very popular. Perhaps you could buy a second one and make everyone happy.”
There was a silence.
Watson coughed to disguise a laugh. Even Holmes looked briefly as if politeness had produced an unforeseen variable.
“Bear,” he said at last, “your solution is distressingly practical.”
“Thank you,” Paddington said.
Holmes tapped the FIRE EXTINGUISHER tag with the ferrule of his cane. “Here is the point. You live by signs. You obey the wrong ones, ignore the right ones, and mistake decoration for instruction. From this moment, you will read differently.”
Keene folded her arms. “And what if we don’t?”
“Then,” Holmes replied, “we test you in the field. Fortunately, our colleague here—” he gestured to Paddington—“has an appointment at Paddington Station. We shall combine your first lesson with his engagement. To the station forecourt. To the Wild Table of Love.”
Paddington brightened. “That will be most convenient.”
Holmes turned to the four exiles. “Conditions for the exercise. Keene: no smoking between here and the forecourt. Wilkins: keep your head up, not buried in menus. Blake: you will ignore exactly one sign of your choosing. Choose wisely. Marsh: you will carry nothing edible. Your hands will be free for once.”
Marsh looked stricken. “Not even a—?”
“Not even a,” Holmes said.
Watson gathered his coat. “You do realise you sound like a schoolmaster.”
“I am precisely that,” Holmes replied. “London is the curriculum.”
At the threshold, Holmes glanced back at the corkboard, at the wrong WAY OUT arrow pointing to a cupboard.
“Lesson one,” he murmured, “the nearest sign is not always the truest. Lesson two: politeness is a kind of counter-sign. It makes people move. Lesson three: bring your bear.”
Chapter Three: Signs in Transit
The party emerged from the stairwell into the bustle of Paddington’s streets. The evening light pooled yellow on the pavements, glinting off puddles that hadn’t quite dried. Across the forecourt, the sculpture rose like an enormous banquet table, its wild menagerie of animals caught mid-feast in bronze.
Paddington clutched his suitcase with both paws. “How splendid it looks,” he said. “I do hope they have remembered the sugar.”
“Eyes sharp,” Holmes replied, ignoring him. “The city is speaking.”
They had gone no more than twenty paces when Wilkins nearly leaned on a railing daubed with a crude WET PAINT notice.
“Typical,” he muttered, reaching for a cigarette instead. “These signs stay up for weeks. Paint’s long since dried.”
“Don’t,” said Paddington, alarmed. “It says wet, so it must be wet. We ought to respect it.”
Keene snorted. “It’s a leftover warning. They leave them up to cover themselves.”
Holmes ran a gloved finger lightly across the surface. The smear came away red and fresh. “Instructive,” he murmured. “The sign was truer than expected. A warning neglected becomes a trap.”
Watson frowned. “And had you smudged your coat?”
Holmes held up the crimson mark. “Better paint than blood.”
Paddington handed him a handkerchief, neatly folded, and added gently, “We mustn’t dawdle. Aunt Lucy always said that arriving late is rude — but being early is worse.”
At the corner by a shuttered shopfront, Marsh bent to peer at a sticker half-peeled from the hoarding: I AM REVERSIBLE.
He tapped it as though decoding a cipher. “Clothes, surely. A gimmick. Jackets that go both ways.”
“Or a slogan,” Keene said. “Double agents. People who switch sides. London’s full of them.”
Holmes crouched to study the typography. “Observe the emphasis: I am. A declaration, not a product label. It is identity itself that is reversible.”
Blake looked uneasy. “But what if it means someone can turn inside-out?”
Paddington blinked. “That would sound dreadfully uncomfortable. But if a person says they are reversible, we ought to take them at their word. Aunt Lucy always says one should believe what people tell you about themselves. And speaking of which —” he checked his watch politely — “we really should keep moving.”
The forecourt narrowed where a set of colourful barriers blocked the pavement. A tall board declared: ROAD CLOSED.
Blake halted at once. “We can’t go through. It says closed.”
“It means diverted,” Keene said, already stepping round the tape. “They don’t actually close anything. They just pretend to.”
Wilkins shoved his hands in his coat. “It’s theatre, like the Service. Put up a sign, move the sheep.”
Holmes’s eyes traced the street beyond the barrier. “Closure is rarely absolute. A sign closes one road and opens another. The question is: which path was meant for us?”
Paddington simply stepped to the side, where a gap had been left for pedestrians. “If one is careful, there is usually a way round. And if we delay much longer, we may not be exactly on time. Aunt Lucy would be most disappointed.”
Watson shook his head. “The bear is out-thinking us all.”
They were almost at the sculpture when the wind flapped another sheet of hoarding paper against a lamppost. Crudely stencilled in white on black was the outline of a press vest: PRESS – ONWARD & SPEAK LOUDER.
Wilkins narrowed his eyes. “Now that’s a rallying cry. Protesters, agitators. Could mean trouble.”
“Or it’s just students with too much spray paint,” Keene said.
Holmes studied it closely. “Note the imperatives. Onward. Speak louder. Not suggestion but command. Dangerous in the wrong ears.”
Watson muttered, “It’s a sticker, Holmes.”
Paddington smoothed the paper flat. “I think it’s rather good advice. If you have something important to say, you should say it so people can hear. But —” he patted his stomach apologetically — “I haven’t had a marmalade sandwich since breakfast, and I would hate to keep my hosts waiting. We really mustn’t tarry.”
The Pilgrms shuffled awkwardly, chastened by the bear’s courtesy. Even Holmes gave the faintest of nods.
At last they stood before the Wild Table of Love. Bronze antelopes, bears, and wolves craned their necks as though caught in mid-feast. The long table gleamed with rain. A plaque at the base bore its title.
Paddington checked his watch, then beamed. “Right on time. Aunt Lucy would be ever so pleased.”
He opened his suitcase, extracted the invitation card, and held it up proudly. “Here we are. I am expected.”
Holmes took the card, scanned it once, then twice. His eyes narrowed. “Expected, yes,” he said softly. “But perhaps not for tea.”
Chapter Four: The Invitation
Holmes turned the card over in his hands, studying the edges as though the paper itself might confess. The rain-spotted surface gleamed under the station lamps.
“Observe, Watson,” he said. “The invitation is hand-printed, not engraved. The font mimics elegance but is carelessly kerned. The capital L in Love is slightly misaligned.”
Watson sighed. “And what does that signify, other than a poor printer?”
Holmes tapped the line beneath: You are warmly invited to tea, at the Wild Table of Love.
“Note the phrasing. Not for tea, but to tea. An imprecise preposition — one favoured by our adversaries when masking an imperative as hospitality. You are not a guest, bear. You are a summons.”
Paddington looked stricken. “But it says warmly invited. That sounded most friendly.”
Watson laid a hand on his shoulder. “I’m afraid in our world, warmth is often a cover for a trap.”
Keene crossed her arms. “So the bear’s been lured. Typical Service thinking — bait the innocent, watch the hawks descend.”
Wilkins shifted uneasily. “And us paraded in the open air like a target.”
Holmes ignored them. He held the card up to the lamplight. Along the edge, faint impressions showed where another message had been pressed and erased.
“There,” Holmes murmured. “Coordinates. Terminal 5, Heathrow. And a date: today. This table was merely the rendezvous point.”
Blake’s eyes widened. “But we’re standing here now.”
“Precisely.” Holmes’s voice hardened. “Which means someone is watching. Testing whether the invitation would be honoured.”
Paddington hugged his suitcase tighter. “Oh dear. I do try my best to be punctual. Aunt Lucy always says that keeping one’s word is the highest courtesy. But I certainly hadn’t meant to be bait.”
Holmes crouched to the plaque at the sculpture’s base. Scratched faintly into the bronze, beneath the official title, was another hand scrawl: WET PAINT – FOLLOW.
Wilkins swore under his breath. “Paint again. The same mark as before.”
Holmes rose, eyes gleaming. “The enemy leaves signs like breadcrumbs. They believe we will over-interpret, or under-read, or dismiss them as noise. They do not reckon on us reading together.”
Keene gave a short, sharp laugh. “Together? Us? You’ve clearly not met us properly.”
“On the contrary,” Holmes said. “I have. And that is why this will work.”
Watson cleared his throat. “Holmes, are you seriously proposing we follow a graffitied instruction into an airport ambush?”
“Of course,” Holmes replied. “That is exactly what our adversary expects us not to do. Which makes it the only logical course.”
Paddington raised a paw timidly. “Might I suggest we also take some sandwiches? I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and Aunt Lucy always says one thinks more clearly after a little something.”
Marsh brightened immediately. “Now that’s the best idea I’ve heard all day.”
Holmes snapped the card shut between two fingers. “Very well. Tea should wait. We are bound for Heathrow.”
The wind gusted through the station forecourt, rattling the signs. For the first time, the Pilgrms looked not merely exiled but enlisted — unwilling recruits on a journey that had ceased to be symbolic and had become, unmistakably, a case.
Chapter Five: The Wild Table of Love
The Wild Table of Love gleamed in the station forecourt, its bronze animals frozen mid-feast. A wolf strained across the table toward an antelope; a giraffe bent awkwardly over a platter; and at the far end, a squat little koala clung to its place with determined charm.
Paddington’s eyes shone. “How splendid. A whole table, and everyone so well behaved. Aunt Lucy always says a polite dinner party is one where no one quarrels. These animals look to be getting along wonderfully.”
Before anyone could stop him, he climbed onto one of the benches and set his suitcase neatly beside the bronze koala. He smoothed his coat, adjusted his hat, and folded his paws in his lap.
“I think this will be my seat,” he said with satisfaction. “The koala looks most companionable. I only hope they remembered the scones.”
The Pilgrms exchanged glances. Keene raised an eyebrow. Wilkins opened his mouth, shut it again.
Paddington leaned toward the koala. “Good evening. My name is Paddington Brown. I don’t suppose you’ve seen the tea?”
Blake, flustered, half-whispered, “Should we tell him?”
But Holmes was studying the invitation card again, his eyes narrowing and repeating. “Note the phrasing, Watson: warmly invited to tea. Not for tea. Language imprecise. Sloppy printing. Coordinates pressed faintly here. Heathrow Terminal 5. This is no hospitality. It is summons.”
Watson groaned. “So the bear was bait after all.”
Paddington blinked at them, then at the koala. “But it says scones. And sponge cake.”
Holmes crouched by the plaque at the table’s base again. Scratched faintly into the bronze, just beneath the official inscription, were the words: WET PAINT – FOLLOW.
Wilkins swore under his breath. “Paint again. It’s the same mark as before.”
Holmes straightened. “A breadcrumb. They are watching to see if we take the trail.”
As if on cue, Watson caught sight of a man in a red top by the kiosk, pretending to check his phone. Too still. Watching.
Keene muttered, “There’s your host.”
The man moved suddenly, striding toward them, but the crowd eddied around him. At that same moment, a trolley case tipped noisily, scattering papers; Marsh, startled, dropped the biscuit packet he’d smuggled in defiance of Holmes’s orders; Blake froze in front of a painted KEEP CLEAR marking on the ground, unable to step forward.
“Security theatre,” Keene spat. “We’re boxed in.”
Watson pulled Paddington from his seat. “Time to go.”
“But I hadn’t even had a cup of tea,” Paddington protested politely, scooping up his suitcase. “Aunt Lucy will be very disappointed if I leave a party before the scones arrive.”
“Bear,” Holmes said, his eyes never leaving the red-top man, “there were never going to be scones.”
Paddington looked back at the bronze koala, which stared forever at its empty plate. He gave it a small bow. “Thank you all the same for saving me a place.”
The man in the red top was closing fast now. Then — a distraction: the cleaning robot whirred across the forecourt, its recorded voice chiming Caution: Wet Floor as it polished its own slow circle. The man cursed, side-stepped — and in that hesitation, Holmes moved.
“Now,” he snapped. “We follow the sign. Heathrow.”
The Pilgrms stumbled into motion, a tangle of coats and nerves. Paddington hurried at their centre, suitcase in paw, his face still half-turned toward the table.
“I do hope,” he murmured, “that the koala won’t be offended if we don’t come back.”
Holmes’s cane rapped the pavement. “Onward. And speak louder if you must — but above all, keep moving.”
Chapter Six: Terminal Error
The words Heathrow Terminal 5 hung between them like a sentence with a missing word.
For Paddington, it was simply a name on the Tube map. For the Pilgrms, it was the place of their unravelling.
As they walked toward the Underground entrance, each wore the same look: a mixture of dread, embarrassment, and stubborn denial. Watson noticed it first. “Holmes,” he murmured, “they’re already half-defeated.”
“They are reliving their disgrace,” Holmes replied, too crisply. “And perhaps they should. Memory can sharpen.”
The disgrace had been whispered across the Service ever since. An operation gone sideways, a courier missed, a flash drive lost — all under the bright glass vaults of Terminal 5.
Wilkins, notionally in charge, had spent too long at a coffee kiosk, convinced the courier’s signal would be an order for cappuccino. He had traced foam patterns like maps while the real target strolled past, unchallenged.
Keene had lit a cigarette under a bold red NO SMOKING sign. Security noticed her long before she noticed the courier. Hauled into a side room, she was still arguing about alarms when the mission collapsed.
Marsh had been placed by the baggage hall, instructed to observe carefully. Instead, he became obsessed with Pret wrappers, declaring each sandwich a likely “dead drop.” He bought three baguettes and a falafel wrap for “analysis” before declaring the entire airport compromised by mayonnaise.
And Blake — earnest, youngest, terrified of mistakes — had seen the courier slip through a STAFF ONLY corridor. Obedient to the sign, she refused to follow. By the time she radioed for permission, the courier was gone, boarding a flight out of reach.
By evening, the operation was dead, the Service furious, and the four of them reassigned to the dingy office above The Pilgrim café. Their new file was mistyped: The Pilgrm. Nobody bothered to correct it.
Officially it was “rehabilitation.” Unofficially it was oblivion.
Now, as the escalator carried them down into the deep tunnel of the Piccadilly Line, the memory pressed on them.
Wilkins’s hands trembled slightly as he lit a cigarette stub and quickly put it out again, eyeing the NO SMOKING signs that glared back from the tiled wall.
Keene muttered, “We’ll foul it up again. They’ll be waiting. Same glass halls, same bright lights. We’re done.”
Marsh clutched his empty hands miserably. “No food this time. How am I meant to focus without food?”
Blake bit her lip. “If the sign says Staff Only again, I don’t know if I’ll be able to—”
Paddington’s voice cut across their spiralling doubts. Polite, but firm.
“Aunt Lucy always says that mistakes are not the end. They are simply opportunities to begin again, only a little wiser. I think we should take this as a second chance.”
The Pilgrms glanced at him, startled by the steadiness in his voice.
Even Holmes paused. “Sound advice, bear. You see, Watson — there are times when courtesy is sharper than cynicism.”
Watson nodded. “Then let’s get them on the train before they remember more than they should.”
The Piccadilly Line doors slid open with a hiss. Together they stepped inside, bound once again for the terminal that had undone them.
This time, there would be no cappuccinos, no cigarettes, no excuses.
This time, there was a bear.
Chapter Seven: Eastbound
The Piccadilly Line was crowded, as it always was, but Paddington had found himself a seat, his suitcase tucked neatly on his lap. He held it firmly, as though the invitation card inside might otherwise lose its way.
Holmes stood, one gloved hand curled around the overhead rail, eyes darting from passenger to passenger as if everyone were a suspect. Watson braced beside him, the soldier’s stance never entirely abandoned even in civilian trains.
The Pilgrms were scattered untidily: Wilkins slumped against the carriage door, Keene leaning with folded arms and daring anyone to catch her eye, Marsh eating something suspiciously crinkly from his pocket, and Blake staring intently at the glowing route map above the seats.
It was Blake who spoke first. “Why is South Ealing in smaller letters?”
Holmes barely moved his eyes. “Because it is not Earl’s Court.”
Blake frowned. “That isn’t very helpful.”
“It wasn’t meant to be,” said Keene.
⸻
At Earl’s Court, the train jolted to a halt and half the carriage seemed to spill out at once. In the gap left behind, a sudden wave of new travellers surged aboard — wheeled suitcases, rucksacks, and a tangle of tourists whose accents carried above the hum.
Wilkins shifted uneasily. “Do we change here?”
“No,” Holmes said.
A pause.
“Are you certain?”
“I am always certain,” Holmes snapped.
Paddington looked up brightly. “Aunt Lucy always says that one should never change at the wrong time, especially if one has been given clear instructions.”
Keene smirked. “Sounds like she’d do well in intelligence.”
“On the contrary,” Holmes muttered. “Such faith would see her doomed.”
The tannoy crackled: “This train terminates at… Heathrow Terminal 5.”
Blake, alarmed, jabbed at the route map. “But that’s us! That’s— We’re on the right train!”
“Congratulations,” Keene said flatly. “You’ve read a sign correctly.”
⸻
The train rattled on, gathering speed as it left the central stations behind. Above ground now, the light flickered through suburban trees and back gardens. Paddington watched it intently, paws folded, as though London were giving him a private farewell.
At South Ealing, Holmes tapped his cane once on the floor. “This is it,” he said softly.
Watson frowned. “Not the stop.”
“No,” Holmes agreed. “The point. The last chance to turn back.”
The Pilgrms looked at each other uneasily. Even Keene’s sneer faltered.
Paddington adjusted his hat. “I think we should carry on,” he said firmly. “Aunt Lucy always says that if one has accepted an invitation, one must see it through. Besides”—he patted his suitcase—“we are expected.”
For a moment, the train hummed with nothing but the clatter of its wheels. Then, as if compelled by the bear’s simple certainty, the others nodded.
The line roared on, westward — despite what the chapter title might suggest.
Chapter Eight: Glass Cathedral
The train sighed into Heathrow Terminal 5 and released its passengers in a rush of footsteps, wheels, and voices. The Pilgrms, Holmes, Watson, and Paddington were carried up through escalators and glass lifts until the vast atrium of the terminal opened above them.
It felt less like a station and more like a cathedral: a vault of glass and steel, flooded with announcements and arrows. Departures, Arrivals, Connections — every surface issued commands.
The Pilgrms faltered.
Wilkins craned his neck upward. “There must be thousands. Which do we follow?”
Blake froze mid-step. “If it says Do Not Enter, then we can’t. If it says Keep Clear, then—oh dear, we’re hemmed in.”
Keene gave a dry laugh. “Welcome home, Pilgrms. Every sign here lies, one way or another.”
Marsh pointed toward a Pret a Manger tucked beneath the departure board. “That’s the most honest sign in the place. At least it tells you what you’ll get.”
Holmes led them toward it, cane clicking on the polished floor. He stopped beside a cluster of seats facing the Pret’s bright logo.
“Here,” he said. “We wait. The trail leads not through pursuit but through patience.”
Watson sat heavily beside him. “You’re gambling they’ll show themselves.”
“I am certain of it,” Holmes replied.
Paddington settled politely on the edge of a seat, his suitcase on his lap. His eyes lingered wistfully on the Pret counter. “I do hope we won’t be very long. Aunt Lucy always said one thinks best after a little something. A scone would do nicely.”
Holmes ignored him, scanning the concourse. The Pilgrms fidgeted — Wilkins lighting an unlit cigarette, Keene tapping her boot, Marsh sneaking a look at Pret’s sandwich board, Blake staring anxiously at the EMERGENCY EXIT sign as if trying to decide whether it applied to them.
Then Watson noticed it first: the man in the red top, luggage trolley, phone lifted just a little too still. Lurking by the Pret queue.
Holmes’s voice dropped. “He followed us.”
Keene muttered, “Of course he did. It’s Heathrow. Everyone’s following someone.”
Paddington straightened his duffle coat, surprising them all with the firmness in his voice. “Then we mustn’t be rude. If we are expected, the least we can do is face them properly.”
Holmes gave him a sharp look. “Bear, this is no tea party.”
“No,” Paddington said softly, “but it is an invitation. And Aunt Lucy always told me: when you accept an invitation, you must see it through.”
Watson exhaled slowly. “Then this is it, Holmes. The table’s been laid.”
Holmes’s eyes never left the red-top man. “Precisely, Watson. The next move is theirs.”
The Pret tills chimed, luggage wheels rattled, and Heathrow’s glass cathedral hummed around them. The Pilgrms sat hunched in their seats, waiting — not quite spies, not quite civilians, but witnesses to a game that was finally, unmistakably, in play.
Chapter Nine: The Rescue
The Pret tills chimed, the crowd surged, and the red-top man finally moved. He left the queue, pushing his trolley toward the seats where Paddington and the Pilgrms waited. His phone was still raised, but his eyes — flat, fixed — were on the bear.
Holmes’s voice was low. “Steady. The test is here.”
Paddington straightened his duffle coat, suitcase balanced on his knees. “I should like to be clear,” he said politely, “that I am expecting tea.”
The man didn’t answer. He moved too fast, closing the gap in three strides. His hand shot out — not for Holmes, not for the Pilgrms — but for Paddington’s paw.
There was no mistaking it: a snatch.
Watson lunged to intercept but stumbled on the slick tiles. Wilkins rose too quickly, knocking over his chair. Keene swore and reached for her lighter as if it were a weapon. Marsh dropped the paper napkin he’d been worrying and went for the man’s trolley instead, tangling it in the fallen chair legs.
Paddington, pulled half to his feet, looked more affronted than afraid. “Excuse me,” he said firmly, “but Aunt Lucy always told me it is terribly rude to drag someone from their tea without asking.”
The man yanked harder. Paddington’s suitcase swung open, marmalade wrappers fluttering across the concourse.
Then chaos multiplied. The cleaning robot hummed into view, circling dutifully between spilled croissants and coffee cups. Its recorded voice rang out: “Caution: Wet Floor. Please stand clear.”
The man stumbled as the robot clipped his ankle. Keene stamped hard on the trolley wheel, pinning it. Blake, eyes on the glowing EMERGENCY EXIT sign, found sudden clarity — she seized the lever. Sirens shrieked, lights flashed, and the crowd surged sideways in confusion.
Watson wrenched Paddington free. Holmes’s cane flicked with surgical precision, plucking the invitation card from the man’s pocket as he staggered.
For a moment the scene dissolved into absurdity: alarms howling, sandwiches skidding, robot circling with implacable cheer. The red-top man, tripped by trays and pressed by the tide of travellers, lost his grip on the bear. By the time he found his footing, the group were gone — hustled through the staff door, Paddington tucked between them like contraband.
They spilled into the service corridor, hearts racing. Wilkins clutched his bruised knee. Marsh brushed croissant flakes from his coat. Blake’s hands still shook on the lever.
Holmes examined the stolen card. “Not elegant,” he said. “But effective.”
Watson exhaled. “Effective enough.”
Paddington adjusted his hat, suitcase clasped firmly again. “I do apologise for the disturbance,” he said. “But I must admit, I am rather pleased we did not all have to leave our tea unfinished. Aunt Lucy would never approve of poor manners.”
Holmes allowed the ghost of a smile. “Indeed. Courtesy proved sharper than claws.”
Epilogue: Afterthoughts
The records still hung in their plastic sleeves on the wall of The Pilgrim. The reviews beneath them looked faintly more hopeful now, as though the biro had soaked up some courage.
Paddington sat once again in his corner seat, suitcase by his side, his paws folded neatly on the table. He had ordered tea and a slice of sponge, and was regarding it with quiet contentment.
“I must say,” he remarked, “it’s very pleasant to return somewhere familiar. Aunt Lucy always says that journeys are important, but coming home is important too.”
Holmes stirred his tea absently, eyes on the sleeve of Kings of the Wild Frontier. “Our adversary slipped the net. There will be further signs to follow.”
Watson sipped his coffee. “But the bear is safe, and that is what matters.”
Across from them, the four Pilgrms slumped in their seats like schoolchildren after exams. Wilkins’s tie was askew, Keene’s lighter sat unopened on the table, Marsh had finally unwrapped a sandwich, and Blake clutched a biro as if taking notes might make sense of it all.
“We made a mess,” Wilkins muttered.
“You always do,” Keene said. “That’s the point.”
“But we didn’t lose,” Blake added, almost shyly. “Not this time.”
Marsh spoke around a mouthful of bread. “Maybe we’re not complete misprints after all.”
Holmes regarded them for a long moment. Then he set down his cup with quiet finality.
“They are Pilgrms,” he said. “But they are our Pilgrms.”
The words landed heavier than the clatter of cups. For the first time since their exile, the four looked less like embarrassments and more like comrades.
Paddington raised his teacup. “Then perhaps we should all be very glad. Aunt Lucy always says that even if you are not perfect, you can still be useful. And besides”—he beamed—“we did arrive on time.”
He paused, a little frown creasing his brow. “I do hope that gentleman in the red top will think better of it next time. Aunt Lucy always told me that snatching is very poor behaviour indeed. But she also said that people often act rudely when they are in a hurry, and one must try to forgive them. I should like to think he was simply late for his flight.”
Watson chuckled, though his moustache twitched with disbelief. “Only you, bear, would excuse an abduction as bad punctuality.”
“And the robot,” Paddington added earnestly, “was rather splendid. I do hope it’s still polishing away. It worked ever so hard.”
The table settled into companionable silence, the hum of the café filling the spaces between. Outside, London’s signs clamoured as ever: ROAD CLOSED, WET PAINT, MIND THE GAP. But for a moment, inside, they felt less like warnings and more like reminders.
Reminders that sometimes the wrong path leads you home. That accidents can be plans you didn’t know you’d made. And that even the simplest helpers — misfits, bears, or machines — can still point the way.
Publication Data
The Pilgrms’ Bear: Marmalade and the Signs of London
First published 2025 by Michael Conan Herron-Bond
Text © Michael Conan Herron-Bond, 2025
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious,
except for the real places and signs, which may or may not
mean what they say.
All parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher — though marmalade stains are inevitable and entirely permitted.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data:
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN:978-1-958-00658-3
Printed in London,
not far from a “Wet Paint” sign that really meant it.
Author’s Afterthought
I should like to thank every Wet Paint sign that turned out to be true, every Road Closed sign that secretly wasn’t, and the kind cleaning robot at Heathrow who worked harder than most of the cast. Aunt Lucy says one should always give credit where it is due — and preferably in neat handwriting.
— Michael Conan Herron-Bond
A first draft with dust jacket. We can see how the novel evolved between London and Hong Kong in late Aug 2025 .. https://nemlog.substack.com/p/the-missing-i
The reviews are in .. https://nemlog.substack.com/p/wet-paint-closed-roads-and-other