Betsey Biggalow the Detective Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Betsey and the Soft Landing

  The Best Show in the World

  Betsey Biggalow, the Detective!

  Betsey Flies a Kite

  About the Author

  Also by Malorie Blackman

  Copyright

  About the Book

  “I’m Betsey Biggalow, the Great Detective, and I’m the one asking questions, not you!”

  Betsey Biggalow may be small, but she’s got a big mystery to solve – the mystery of the missing teddy bear. But botheration! To crack this case she’s going to need a bit of help from Prince, the detective dog!

  Four fantastic adventures, perfect for building reading confidence.

  For Neil and Lizzy, with love as always.

  Betsey and the Soft Landing

  “Sherena, can I ride your bicycle? Please, please?”

  “No, Betsey,” Sherena replied. “It’s too big for you. You’d never get your feet on the pedals anyway.”

  “I would if you helped me,” Betsey said.

  “No,” said Sherena firmly. “You’re only used to four-wheel bikes.”

  “No, I’m not. I’ve ridden on May’s bike and that’s only got two wheels. Please, Sherena.”

  “My bike is a lot bigger than May’s,” said Sherena.

  “But I want to get some exercise,” Betsey tried.

  “Go for a walk then,” said Sherena.

  “But Sherena . . .” Betsey began.

  “Betsey, I said no and I mean no,” said Sherena. “I didn’t save up all my money for over two years and work every week-end and completely remake a second-hand bike just so you could wreck it for me.”

  “Botheration, Sherena! You’re so mean,” said Betsey, crossly.

  “And you’re such a pest,” replied Sherena. And off she walked.

  Betsey went out into the front yard. There was Sherena’s bike, lying on its side, and Betsey wanted to ride on it. She wanted to ride on it something fierce! Oh, to ride with the wind on her face and the pedals racing round, going fast, fast, fast. Betsey walked over to the bike. She lifted it up, holding on to the handlebars. Maybe if she just sat on it . . . Just for a minute. Just for a moment.

  “Oh, if only I had a bike of my own . . .” Betsey whispered. Then she could ride and ride – all the way across Barbados and back!

  Betsey leaned the bike towards her, her hands on the handlebars. She squeezed the brakes. The bike felt wonderful.

  “I’ll just have a quick sit on it,” Betsey decided. After all, one teeny, tiny sit wouldn’t hurt. Betsey began to swing her right leg over the bike.

  “Betsey Biggalow! I hope you’re not thinking of riding that thing.” Gran’ma Liz appeared from nowhere to stand on the front porch.

  “No, Gran’ma Liz,” said Betsey quickly. “Of course not.”

  Betsey hopped off the bike.

  “I should think not,” said Gran’ma. “If the good Lord had meant for us to go tearing around on a bicycle, then we would have wheels instead of legs.”

  Gran’ma Liz didn’t approve of bikes.

  “Come on in, child,” said Gran’ma. “You haven’t finished all your chores yet.”

  So Betsey went inside the house. But for the rest of the day, everything Betsey saw reminded her of Sherena’s bike. Round things like plug holes and the tops of tins all reminded her of the wheels on her sister’s bike. When Betsey went into her bedroom, the door handle reminded her of the bike’s handlebars. When Betsey sat down, she wondered if the saddle of Sherena’s bike was as firm, as comfortable. Finally Betsey could stand it no more. “Botheration!” Betsey muttered to herself. “I want to ride that bike and I’m going to ride that bike.”

  After dinner, Betsey went out into the front yard. The bike was still there, lying on the ground. Betsey picked it up and stroked it.

  “If you were my bike, I’d look after you better than this,” Betsey whispered.

  “Hi, Betsey. What are you doing? Talking to your sister’s bike?” Betsey’s good friend May appeared, making Betsey jump.

  “May . . .” Betsey put her finger over her lips. “Don’t tell anyone but I’m off for a ride.”

  “You can’t.” May stared. “Sherena’s bike is much too big for you. You’ll fall off and break every bone in your body!”

  “No, I won’t. I’m good at this,” Betsey argued.

  “How many times have you ridden on it?” May asked.

  “Er . . . this will be the first time,” Betsey admitted. “But it can’t be much more difficult than riding your bike. You just sit down on the saddle and hold on to the handlebars and pedal.”

  “Betsey . . .” May began.

  “Botheration, May, are you going to help me or not?” asked Betsey.

  “Oh, all right then,” May said at last. “But be careful.”

  “You can be my lookout. Tell me if anyone’s coming.” Betsey swung her leg over the bike. She grinned at May.

  “Here I go!” Betsey laughed and she jumped up to sit on the saddle, her feet on the pedals.

  The bike wibbled and wobbled while Betsey tried to steady it.

  “I’m doing it! I’m riding!” Betsey squealed with delight. “And Sherena said my feet wouldn’t reach the pedals! My sister doesn’t know what she’s talking about!”

  “Shhh!” May warned, looking around.

  “I’m going to ride down the footpath to the beach and back,” said Betsey. And off she went, pedalling furiously.

  “Betsey, no! COME BACK!” May called after her.

  Betsey hardly heard her friend. The warm wind was on her face and the pedals were racing round and round. It was even more fun than Betsey had thought it would be.

  “What’s all the shouting about?” Sherena came out of the house. Then she saw Betsey – and her bike – disappearing into the distance. “My bike! Betsey! I told you that you couldn’t ride it. Just wait till I catch you,” Sherena yelled.

  Betsey turned her head to look at her big sister. That was a big, BIG mistake! The bike started to wobble and to wibble even more than before. Betsey squeezed the brakes. The bike started to slow down, but then Betsey realised something. Her legs were long enough to reach the pedals, but they weren’t long enough to reach the ground. Sitting on the saddle meant that she could only reach the pedals. How was she going to stop the bike without falling on the hard ground and hurting herself?

  “Sherena! May! HELP!” Betsey shouted.

  “Hang on, Betsey!” Sherena raced after her sister.

  “We’re coming!” May dashed after Sherena.

  Betsey stuck her legs out straight in front of her, but she didn’t dare squeeze the brakes very hard. Now Betsey was on the beach. Sand flew up everywhere. And she was heading for the sea.

  “I don’t want to get wet!” Betsey shrieked. She decided she’d rather fall on the sand than in the sea, so she pressed the brakes – hard!

  Too hard. Betsey went flying over the handlebars and both she and the bike fell – SPLOOSH! – into the water. The bike lay on its side, the back wheel spinning around. Betsey sat in the water, shaking her head and wondering what had happened. She was sitting in only a few centimetres of water but it was wet and felt yukky! Sherena and May came running up.

  “Betsey, are you all right?” Sherena asked anxiously.

  Betsey stood up, her shirt and trousers soaked. “I . . . I think so,” she said.

  “Well, you won’t be when I’ve finished with you,” Sherena said angrily. “I told you not to ride on my bike.”

  “Don’t worry, Sherena.” Betsey shook her head. “I’m not
even going to sit on it again until my legs grow at least another ten centimetres!”

  Sherena made Betsey pick up the bike and push it all the way back to the house.

  “And when we get home, you can dry it and clean it and oil it too,” said Sherena.

  And for once Betsey didn’t argue.

  “Never mind, Betsey,” whispered May. “You didn’t break every bone in your body like I thought you would!”

  “The sea gave me a nice, soft landing,” Betsey whispered back. “It’s just a shame my landing was so wet as well!”

  The Best Show in the World

  Betsey stretched her hands out in front of her, before resting them on the keyboard.

  “I’m now going to make up a song off the top of my head and play it for you,” said Betsey very importantly. Then she plonked her hands up and down the keyboard, running them over the black and white keys.

  “Betsey, no more – please,” Sherena begged. “You are driving me up the wall, round the twist and off my head! That noise you’re making is horrible!”

  “It’s not noise. It’s music!” said Betsey and she started playing again.

  “My name is Betsey,

  And I live in a house.

  I don’t have a cat,

  And I don’t have a mouse!

  Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!”

  It sounded good to her!

  Prince, the family black and brown Alsatian dog, raised his head and began to howl.

  “Hoooo! Owww-owww!” yowled Prince.

  “Betsey, I’ll give you anything you want if you’ll just hush up!” pleaded Desmond. “Look, you’re even getting on Prince’s nerves now!”

  “Botheration, Desmond! You don’t know good music when you hear it.” Betsey frowned. “And I’m not getting on Prince’s nerves. He’s singing along with me.”

  PLONK! PLINK! PLONK! Betsey banged on the keyboard even louder than before. Playing the keyboard was such fun! The music sounded really good – and the louder she played, the better it sounded! Dad bought the keyboard for all of them, before he’d had to leave to finish his final year of studying. Dad was going to be a doctor.

  Just then the front door opened and in walked Mum and Gran’ma Liz.

  “Mum, make her stop! Please make her stop!” wailed Sherena.

  “She’s driving us bonkers!” Desmond moaned, his hands over his ears.

  “Look, Mum! Listen, Gran’ma Liz! I’ve made up a song,” said Betsey. She ran her fingers up and down the keyboard.

  “My name is Betsey,

  And I live in a house.

  I don’t have a cat,

  And I don’t have a mouse!

  Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!”

  “Isn’t that brilliant?” Betsey asked.

  “It’s very good, Betsey.” Mum started to shake her head, then quickly turned it into a nod.

  “Lovely, child,” said Gran’ma Liz, weakly. “But don’t you think the keyboard should have a rest now?”

  “Oh no, Gran’ma. This keyboard is the best present in the world and it’s going to last for ever and ever,” said Betsey. “Besides, I need to practise.”

  “Why?” asked Mum.

  “May and I are going to put on a show for all of you,” announced Betsey. “It’s going to be the best show in the whole world!”

  “Oh-oh!” Sherena muttered.

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” Desmond mumbled.

  “Betsey, I think you should have asked us first,” said Mum.

  “Why?” asked Betsey.

  “Because . . . because . . .” But Mum couldn’t think of a single reason!

  For the next few days, May came over in the afternoons after school. May and Betsey sat in front of the keyboard giggling and playing music – at least that’s what they both called it!

  The next day was Saturday. Mum invited some of her friends and neighbours over and soon there were grown-ups in almost every part of the living room. But to Mum and Gran’ma Liz’s surprise, other people started arriving at the house as well. First there was May, then came Josh and Celeste and others from Betsey’s class.

  “You’re all welcome but what’s going on?” asked Mum.

  “We’ve come to see Betsey’s show,” Josh replied.

  “Betsey’s show!” Mum’s eyes opened wide like saucers. Mum turned to look at Betsey. “Elizabeth Ruby Biggalow, I want a word with you in your room.”

  Ooops! Whenever Mum used Betsey’s whole, full name then Betsey knew that she was in for some serious talking!

  “Why didn’t you tell me that you’d invited all your friends over to hear your show?” Mum asked. “And why didn’t you tell me that you were putting on your show today?”

  “Sorry, Mum,” said Betsey. “I thought it would be fun to put on a show for the grown-ups as well, as a sort of surprise.”

  “Did you? Well, you should have told me first,” said Mum.

  “Your friends will like it, Mum.” Betsey smiled. “It’s going to be the best show in the world.”

  “Hhmm!” was all Mum said.

  Betsey walked back to the keyboard. “Are you ready?” she whispered to May.

  May swallowed hard, then nodded. “I think so.”

  Betsey stood up. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she began grandly. “Please take your seats. May and I are going to put on a show for you. We’ve been practising and practising.”

  “I’m off! I’m going to my friend Marlon’s house,” said Desmond.

  “You can’t go now,” said Betsey. “Please, we’re just about to start. Mum, tell him!”

  “Desmond, wait until your sister’s show is over,” said Mum.

  “Do I have to?” groaned Desmond.

  “Give her a chance,” Mum replied.

  “Desmond, you’ll like it. Honest!” said Betsey.

  Desmond muttered something under his breath. It sounded like, “Bet I don’t!” but it could have been, “No, I won’t!”

  May and Betsey sat next to each other and placed their hands on the keys. Betsey slid the volume control up to maximum.

  “This song is called The Sing-Along Song! Ready, everyone?” Betsey asked.

  They all nodded. Betsey and May plonked their hands down on the keyboard and began to run their fingers up and down the keys. Then they both started to sing:

  “We’re May and Betsey

  We made up this song.

  And with this song,

  We can’t go wrong!

  This song is big

  This song is strong.

  This song is called a Sing-Along song!”

  “This song is very, very long,” whispered Sherena.

  “Shush!” hissed Mum.

  Betsey and May carried on singing.

  “So if you really like this song,

  Take a breath and sing along.”

  Betsey and May started singing their song from the beginning again and playing the keyboard at the same time. All their friends started singing first, while the grown-ups just looked at each other. Then something very strange happened.

  Mum started it. She started singing along too! Then Gran’ma Liz joined in, saying, “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.” Sherena and Desmond looked around the room in amazement. All the other grownups were singing as well, huge, great grins on their faces.

  “Oh well!” said Sherena. And with a laugh, both Desmond and Sherena started singing too. Desmond and Sherena gave out biscuits and cake and everyone had a lot of fun!

  Later that day, Gran’ma Liz said, “Well done, Betsey. I did enjoy your show. I haven’t laughed so much in a long, long time.”

  “I told you you’d enjoy it,” said Betsey. “I told you it would be the best show in the world. And what’s more, we’re going to put on lots and lots more shows . . . We’re going to put on a show every week from now on . . .”

  “Mum!” Desmond and Sherena squealed.

  “Quite right!” Mum smiled. “In fact, Betsey, I’ve been talking with Gran’ma Liz and we both
think that as you’re so keen, we’ll find the money to send you for piano lessons with Mrs Paul from the other side of town. You can have one lesson every two weeks and practise every day. When you’ve learnt a few more songs, then you can put on another show.”

  “Lessons?” Betsey’s jaw dropped. “Did you say lessons?”

  “I certainly did,” said Mum.

  “Oh . . . lessons?” Betsey didn’t sound too keen.

  “Don’t you want to learn how to play the keyboard properly?” asked Mum.

  “I guess so. But lessons . . . Er, Mum, can I have a think about it?” asked Betsey.

  “Of course you can. Take all the time you need.” Mum smiled.

  Funny, but that was the last time Betsey even touched the keyboard for a long, long while!

  Betsey Biggalow, the Detective!

  Betsey put down her book. So that’s how Sam, the girl detective, found the missing money!

  That was a good story, thought Betsey.

  “Slinky, that was a great story.” Betsey picked up the book to show to her teddy bear.

  But Slinky wasn’t there . . . Botheration! Where was Slinky Malinky?

  Betsey searched here and there and everywhere, but she just couldn’t find her. Slinky Malinky was a small, orange teddy bear with a lop-sided smile and round button eyes. Betsey didn’t play with her teddy any more, but Slinky Malinky sat at the bottom of her bed and sometimes Betsey would talk to her. She’d had Slinky Malinky for a long, long time – ever since she could remember. Only now Slinky was missing. Where was she?

  “There’s only one thing for it,” Betsey muttered to herself. “I’m going to have to become a detective, just like in my book, until I find her!”

  Betsey had a long, hard think. Then she went into her bedroom and dug out a Sherlock Holmes hat from her dressing-up box. The hat had been part of a costume Sherena had worn for a fancy dress party. It was far too big for Betsey, so she had to tilt it well back off her forehead. Next she got one of Sherena’s old notepads and a pencil.