SCREAM FOR JEEVES
by Peter H. Cannon
SCREAM FOR JEEVES is a book with a fantastic premise: P.G.
Wodehouse's lovable nothinghead Bertram Wooster (accompanied, as
always, by his manservant Jeeves, the James Bond of early-20th century
upper-class English country life) wanders into the horrific feverdream
world of H.P. Lovecraft. Delight ensues.
Tag-lined "a parody," SCREAM FOR JEEVES is not. The book reads
like what it is, a creation of love, true to both its source
materials. Cannon combines the two with an ease that makes the
juxtaposition seem almost obvious. The book's believability
(surprisingly!) is stretched only once or twice, and never more than
easily reparable through Wooster's charming narration.
The book is tragically short, weighing in at three stories and one inexplicable essay on Arthur Conan Doyle.
For fans of these authors, I really can't recommend the book more
highly. When Wooster and Jeeves break through the secret
passage in the bottom of Delapor's castle in The Rats in the Walls,
revealing a vast underground cavern and centuries of familial
cannibalism, there is nothing more pleasing than to hear Jeeves utter,
"Quite eldritch, sir."