Mr. Wodehouse, Meet Mr. Lovecraft

by Michael Gerber • “It is a known fact of veterinary science,” said Lord Boggleton, settling in to his favorite topic, “that cats must be fed mayonnaise thrice daily. Anyone who disagrees is a fool.”

“What if they don’t like it?” asked his guest, Catherine Tramway. She was the visiting widow of an American ball-bearing magnate, and a strong candidate to take this moldering old pile off the family’s hands at a handsome profit. “Surely you don’t force them?”

Bill winced inwardly.  Sensing the sale–or, more to the point, his commission–slipping away, he quickly soothed Mrs. Tramway’s sensibilities. “No, no, of course not.”

Boggleton was immediately incensed. “That’s ridiculous! My dear woman, you mustn’t coddle your felines! A few lashes with a very small whip–”

Colonel Brabazon charged in, all moustache and bluster and muscle gone to fat. Bill said a silent prayer of thanks for the interruption.

“I found this book in the library!” he exclaimed.

“Imagine that,” said Bill’s wife Monica.

“It looks dashed old.” The Colonel had been stationed in Egypt, so he considered himself a bit of an expert on antiquity. They all gathered around.

“The Necronomicon?” Monica asked. “What does that mean?”

“Latin, I imagine,” said the Colonel. “Or Greek.”

“It is Arabic in origin,” said Peeves, with a queer gleam in his eye. “The work of one Abdul Alhazred, also known as ‘the mad Arab.'”

“What is its opinion on the subject of cats?” Lord Boggleton said.

“Only one way to find out,” said Mrs. Tramway brightly. Like many rich woman, she was allergic to waiting, and opened the book.

“Tally-ho,” muttered Peeves, and slipped away.

II.

After reading a few gruesome, blasphemous passages, the party was collectively tottering on the brink of cosmic horrors beyond man’s ability to bear. Still, for the Colonel at least, a shred of lip-stiffness remained. The Code, he thought, the Code. What would Bascombe or Squiffy think if I quailed in front of a book?

“I say, Lord Boggleton, I may be tottering on the brink of cosmic horrors and all that rot, but it seems bloody strange, you having such a book.”

“I am as flummoxed as you are, Colonel Brabazon,” their host replied. “Peeves must have unearthed it while reorganizing the Library.

“What’s that noise?” said Bill, walking toward the open window. Muffled tom-toms could be heard. “There appears to be some sort of commotion in the vicinity of the lake.”

(Mr. Wodehouse, Meet Mr. Lovecraft continues…)