P G Wodehouse – Man Upstairs

“I find, by Jove,” he continued, “that I wrote the thing myself.”

“It’s not a patch on ‘The Merry Widow,’ ” said Mr. Prosser.

Owen thumped the table.

“I tell you I find I wrote the thing myself.”

“What thing?”

“This play I’m telling you about. This White Roses thing.”

He found that he had at last got his host’s ear. Mr. Prosser seemed genuinely interested.

“What do you mean?”

Owen plunged into his story. He started from its dim beginning, from the days when he had bought the novel on his journey from Bath to Cheltenham. He described his methods of work, his registering of the package, his suspense, his growing resignation. He sketched the progress of his life. He spoke of Audrey and gave a crisp character-sketch of Mr. Sheppherd. He took his hearer right up to the moment when the truth had come home to him.

Towards the end of his narrative the lights went out, and he finished his story in the hotel courtyard. In the cool air he felt revived. The outlines of Mr. Prosser became sharp and distinct again.

The sociologist listened admirably. He appeared absorbed, and did not interrupt once.

“What makes you so certain that this was your version?” he asked, as they passed into the Strand.

Owen told him of the creature of his imagination in Act III.

“But you have lost your manuscript?”

“Yes; I burnt it.”

“Just what one might have expected you to do,” said Mr Prosser, unkindly. “Young man, I begin to believe that there may be something in this. You haven’t got a ghost of a proof that would hold water in a court of law, of course; but still, I’m inclined to believe you. For one thing, you haven’t the intelligence to invent such a story.”

Owen thanked him.

“In fact, if you can answer me one question I shall be satisfied.”

It seemed to Owen that Mr. Prosser was tending to get a little above himself. As an intelligent listener he had been of service, but that appeared to be no reason why he should constitute himself a sort of judge and master of the ceremonies.

“That’s very good of you,” he said; “but will Edith Butler be satisfied? That’s more to the point.”

“I am Edith Butler,” said Mr. Prosser.

Owen stopped. “You?”

“You need not babble it from the house-tops. You are the only person besides my agent who knows it, and I wouldn’t have told you if I could have helped it. It isn’t a thing I want known. Great Scott, man, don’t goggle at me like a fish! Haven’t you heard of pseudonyms before?”

“Yes, but-”

“Well, never mind. Take it from me that I am Edith Butler. Now listen to me. That manuscript reached me when I was in the country. There was no name on it. That in itself points strongly to the fact that you were its author. It was precisely the chuckle-headed sort of thing you would have done, to put no name on the thing.”

“I enclosed a letter, anyhow.”

“There was a letter enclosed. I opened the parcel out of doors. There was a fresh breeze blowing at the time. It caught the letter, and that was the last I saw of it. I had read as far as ‘Dear Madam.’ But one thing I do remember about it, and that was that it was sent me from some hotel in Cheltenham, and I could remember it if I heard it. Now, then?”

“I can tell it you. It was Wilbraham’s. I was stopping there.”

“You pass,” said Mr. Prosser. “It was Wilbraham’s.”

Owen’s heart gave a jump. For a moment he walked on air.

“Then do you mean to say that it’s all right-that you believe-”

“I do,” said Mr. Prosser. “By the way,” he said, “the notice of White Roses went up last night.”

Owen’s heart turned to lead.

“But-but-” he stammered. “But to-night the house was packed.”

“It was. Packed with paper. All the merry dead-heads in London were there. It has been the worst failure this season. And, by George,” he cried, with sudden vehemence, “serve ’em right. If I told them once it would fail in England, I told them a hundred times. The London public won’t stand that sort of blithering twaddle.”