The Missing “i”
In this exclusive first chapter, Holmes, Watson, a marmalade-loving bear and the fumbling Pilgrms discover that even broken signs can still point the way.
The Pilgrms’ Bear
By M. B. Carrondyle
London is a city of signs. Some warn, some mislead, most are ignored. But in this new novel — part comic spy thriller, part fable — the smallest and strangest signs prove impossible to overlook.
The Pilgrms’ Bear brings together Sherlock Holmes, Dr Watson, a duffle-coated bear with a suitcase full of marmalade sandwiches, and MI5’s most hopeless cast-offs: the Pilgrms. Together, they stumble through a city littered with messages, discovering that the way you read the world matters as much as what it says.
Chapter One Extract: The Missing “i”
Even broken signs can still point the right way.
The café was spelt correctly.
The Pilgrim had the air of a place curated as much as decorated. Its walls were papered with record sleeves, some iconic, some obscure, each with a clipped review as though the café doubled as a music archive.
Paddington lingered before one sleeve: Adam Ant – Kings of the Wild Frontier. Beneath the warrior paint and defiant glare, a short review was pinned in neat type:
“This album is great. So much energy and invention.”
Paddington read it aloud carefully, his head tilting. “That sounds rather nice,” he said. “I should very much like to have more energy and invention myself.”
Holmes, standing behind him, allowed the faintest of smiles. “A review, Watson, but also a prescription. Energy and invention: the very qualities the Pilgrms lack. Words, you see, can be signs as much as music. Most people glance, nod, and pass on. But even faintly printed lines may hold instruction.”
“A city never writes in plain words, Watson. The trick is knowing when to listen.”
Watson gave a weary grunt. “Or it might simply be a review of a pop album, Holmes.”
“Perhaps. But we should not be too quick to dismiss messages, however ordinary their form. This city has a way of speaking — through signs, through reviews, even through careless graffiti. The trick, Watson, is knowing when to listen.”
Paddington straightened his hat. “Then I shall try to listen more carefully.”
Behind them, the discreet door to The Pilgrm — missing its “i” — waited like an uncorrected misprint.
Inside, the room smelled faintly of burnt coffee and bureaucracy. A strip light flickered overhead. A crooked sign taped to the wall read NO HOT DRINKS NEAR THE FILES, beneath which three mugs left rings on a filing cabinet.
Two of the Pilgrms were already there: Wilkins, whose trench coat smelled permanently of cigarette smoke, and Blake, whose tie was never quite the same length on both sides. They were arguing over whether a sticker that said I AM REVERSIBLE was a threat or just an advert for jackets.
“Perhaps it’s a warning,” Wilkins muttered, lighting up. “You know, agents who switch sides. Double lives. That sort of thing.”
Blake snorted. “Or it means you can wear the thing inside out. Don’t overcomplicate it.”
Holmes, entering with Paddington and Watson in tow, interjected smoothly: “Gentlemen, the truth is rarely one or the other. A reversible coat is a practical garment. But in the right hands, a metaphor too. The city is speaking to you, if you’ll only stop bickering long enough to hear it.”
Watson muttered into his moustache. “Or it’s just a jacket.”
Paddington set his suitcase carefully by the table. “Aunt Lucy always said that if someone tells you they’re reversible, you should probably believe them. It sounds dreadfully uncomfortable, but one ought not to doubt a person’s word.”
The Pilgrms exchanged baffled looks. Holmes, for once, seemed satisfied.
At that moment, a gust of wind pushed against the door and sent a sheet of hoarding paper skittering across the floor. Pinned to it was a crude stencil of a press vest, white paint on black, with the words:
PRESS — ONWARD & SPEAK LOUDER
Wilkins squinted. “Now that,” he said, “isn’t about jackets. That’s a rallying cry. Protesters, journalists, agitators — a call to arms if ever I saw one.”
Blake shrugged. “Looks like student graffiti to me. The sort of thing people stencil when they’ve run out of good slogans.”
Holmes crouched low, tracing the letters with a finger. “Observe the imperatives, Watson: onward and speak louder. A command, not a plea. Such words can mobilise or manipulate. In the wrong hands, even paint becomes a weapon.”
Watson rolled his eyes. “It’s a poster on a hoarding, Holmes.”
Paddington peered at it politely. “It seems to me like good advice. One should always do one’s best to go onward — and if one is speaking, it helps to be heard.”
The room was silent for a beat. Then Wilkins gave a low whistle. “Maybe the bear’s got a point.”
Paddington reached down and carefully smoothed the curling edge of the sticker flat against the wall.
“It looks as though someone went to a lot of trouble,” he said. “It would be a shame if nobody paid attention.”
Watson sighed. Holmes narrowed his eyes. The Pilgrms shrugged.
And somewhere beyond the café walls, the city of signs kept speaking — whether they were ready to listen or not.
In a world of too many messages, the hardest task is to notice which ones still speak to us.
About the Author
M. B. Carrondyle is the pseudonym of a writer with an unusual fondness for marmalade, Edwardian detective stories and the back corridors of Heathrow. The name itself is a hybrid of inspirations — Michael Bond, Arthur Conan Doyle, John le Carré and Mick Herron.
Little is known about Carrondyle’s true identity, though whispers suggest they once worked in an office with more filing cabinets than windows, and spent far too long staring at “Wet Paint” signs to see if they really meant it.
In Conversation with M. B. Carrondyle
We met M. B. Carrondyle in a quiet corner of a London café, tea steaming, marmalade glinting in the afternoon light. He has the air of someone who notices everything yet says little — a writer who lets the city’s shadows do much of the talking. Known for his wry observations and fondness for hidden details, Carrondyle slips easily between the ordinary and the uncanny. His new novel, The Pilgrms’ Bear, is less a departure than another coded message left pinned to the noticeboard of London life.
Q: Paddington Bear in a spy novel — isn’t that absurd?
A: Entirely. That’s the point. A polite bear in a duffle coat is the last creature you’d expect to survive a world of double agents and false signals. But absurdity is sometimes a strength.
Q: Why bring back Holmes and Watson?
A: Because London is still theirs. Holmes over-reads every sticker and plaque, Watson scoffs, and between them Paddington quietly trusts what he sees. That triangle — paranoia, scepticism, innocence — is the beating heart of the story.
Q: And the Pilgrms?
A: They are the exiles, the leftovers, the agents who got Heathrow wrong. They’ve lost their “i”, their sense of self. But even broken signs can still point the right way.
Q: Do signs really matter that much?
A: More than we admit. The danger isn’t that they lie, but that we stop paying attention. This book is just a comic way of saying: look again.
Q: And marmalade?
A: Always marmalade. Because no matter how complicated the world becomes, it helps to have something simple and sweet in your suitcase.
The reviews are in — here’s what they’ve been saying
The response to The Pilgrms’ Bear has been as layered as London itself. Broadsheets have praised its wit and melancholy, while unlikely voices — from station kiosks to escalator walls — have chimed in with their own verdicts. Together, they sketch the novel’s curious blend of satire, warmth, and espionage.
“A clever satire on the city and its secrets — Carrondyle balances whimsy with genuine tension.”
— The Guardian
“Road closed. Except to readers of genius.”
— Transport for London
“An inventive blend of comic intrigue and urban melancholy.”
— The Times Literary Supplement
“Best served with marmalade.”
— Paddington Station Kiosk
“Carrondyle writes with the precision of a spy and the heart of a storyteller.”
— The Spectator
“One bear, many secrets. Mind the gap.”
— London Underground Announcer
“The Pilgrms’ Bear is both playful and poignant — a fable of innocence in a world of shadows.”
— The Observer
“The funniest thing to happen to Heathrow Terminal 5 since lost luggage.”
— Departures Board
“London becomes a character in its own right — layered, surreal, and oddly tender.”
— Evening Standard
“A case file sticky with jam.”
— Scotland Yard Archives
“A rare feat: a novel that disarms with charm while keeping its blade sharp.”
— The Financial Times
“Not quite Holmes, not quite Watson — but wholly irresistible.”
— 221B Baker Street Residents’ Association
Great post Geoff