Free The Secret of Platform 13 by Eva Ibbotson Page A

about him, he saw that Mrs Partridge, who’d been flat out on a luggage trolley, was sitting up and looking puzzled.
    ‘I’ve got a tingle in my elbow,’ she said. ‘Real fierce it is.’
    At the same time, Miriam Hughes-Hughes, the ghost of the apologizing lady , rolled off the bench outside the Left Luggage Office and lay blinking on the ground.
    It was Ernie who realized what had happened.
    ‘We’re being summoned! We’re being sent for!’
    ‘It’ll be the wizard,’ said Mrs Partridge excitedly . ‘There isn’t no one else can do tricks like that!’
    Wasting no more time, they glided down the platform and made their way to the park. They found Cornelius sitting on a tree stump and staring into the water.
    ‘Did you call us, Your Honour?’ asked Ernie.
    ‘I did,’ said Cor. He then told them what had happened earlier in Raymond’s room: ‘We went to tell him who he was, but the noise he made was more than anyone could bear. We had to leave.’
    The ghosts looked troubled. ‘We should have warned you, maybe,’ said Ernie, ‘but we thought he might be better with you.’
    ‘Well, he wasn’t.’ Cor rubbed his aching knees. ‘Hans wants to bop the Prince on the head and carry him through the gump in a sack, but I think we must have another go at persuading him to come willingly. So I want you to call up all the . . . unusual people who are left Up Here and ask them to put on a special show for Raymond. Wizards, will o’ the wisps . . . everyone you can find. Ask them to do the best tricks they can and we’ll build a throne for Raymond and hail him as a prince.’
    ‘A sort of Raymond Trottle Magic Show?’ said Mrs Partridge eagerly .
    Ernie, though, was looking worried. ‘There’s always a bit of a do on Midsummer’s Eve, that’s true enough. But . . . well, Your Honour, I don’t want to throw a damper but magic isn’t what it was up here. It’s what you might call the Tinkerbell Factor.’
    ‘I don’t follow you,’ said the wizard.
    ‘Well, there’s this fairy . . . she’s in a book called Peter Pan . Tinkerbell, she’s called. When people say they don’t believe in her she goes all woozy and feeble. It’s like that up here with the wizards and the witches and all. People haven’t believed in them so long they’ve lost heart a bit.’
    ‘We can only do our best,’ said Cornelius. ‘Now, tell me, what’s the situation about . . . you know . . .’ He spoke quietly , not knowing who might be listening in the depths of the lake. ‘ Him . The monster? Is he still there?’
    ‘Old Nuckel? They say so,’ said Ernie. ‘But no one’s seen him for donkey’s years. Have you thought of calling him up?’
    ‘I was wondering,’ said Cor. ‘I happen to have my book of spells with me. It would make a splendid ending to the show.’
    The ghosts looked respectful. Raising monsters from the deep is very difficult magic indeed.
    ‘Well, if that doesn’t fetch the little perisher, nothing will,’ said Mrs Partridge – and blushed, because nasty or not, Raymond Trottle was, after all, a prince.
    It was incredible how helpful everyone was. Witches who worked in school kitchens trying to make two pounds of mince go round a hundred children said they would come, and so did wizards who taught Chemistry and stayed behind to make interesting explosions after the children had gone home. An animal trainer who trained birds for films and television, and was really an enchanter, promised to bring his flock of white doves so that the evening could begin with a fly-past.
    Melisande, the water-nymph-who-was-not-a-mermaid, swam through the outlet pipe at For-tlands and spoke to her uncle who was a merrow and worked the sewers, dredging up stuff which people had flushed down the loo by mistake or lost in the plughole of the bath, and he too said he would come and do a trick for Raymond.
    ‘Really , people are so kind ,’ said Gurkie as she ran about jollying along the tree spirits who had agreed