Dear Charles,
It was with no small measure of delight that I perused the latest edition of the Hertfordshire Bugle, wherein I discovered a most singular announcement: a company of players, spirited and bold, propose to enact a tale drawn from the very fabric of your imagination, those fanciful personages of yours, Mr Ebenezer Scrooge, young Timothy Cratchit, and that motley assemblage who haunt the pages of your celebrated Christmas Carol. Yet, mark this curious twist. It appears that my own creation, the indefatigable Mr Sherlock Holmes, shall be summoned to unravel the mystery of Scrooge’s untimely demise. A murder most foul, and in such festive season.

Yours aye,

Arthur

I confess, the notion intrigued me exceedingly, and thus I resolved to accompany my esteemed friend Arthur Ignatius Conan Doyle upon a tempestuous December evening, when the wind did howl like a chorus of lamenting spirits and the rain beat a mournful tattoo upon the cobblestones.

The theatre, though modest in its proportions, proved a sanctuary of warmth and cheer. Its scenery, artfully contrived, bore a striking resemblance to those thoroughfares which the world, in its affectionate fancy, now terms ‘Dickensian London’. A gentleman of genteel aspect, attired with commendable propriety, entertained the assembly upon a violoncello, coaxing forth strains so lively that the audience, in a fit of good humour, responded with applause most hearty. Alas! Midway through his exertions, some singular mischance befell his attire, for his trousers descended in a manner wholly unlooked-for, occasioning a commotion that caused the lady seated beside me to spill her beverage upon her lap – a calamity which she bore with admirable fortitude.

In the foyer, I procured a playbill, hoping thereby to acquaint myself with the dramatis personae and discern which of my literary progeny might grace the boards. To my astonishment, many were denominated merely as Actor One, Actor Two, and so forth, a practice as perplexing as it is unpoetical. Yet among them shone a figure of distinction: Mr Sherlock Holmes, portrayed with grave fidelity by a young gentleman of the name Neil Harrison. A capital fellow, indeed. His manner was sober, his delivery precise, a performance, as the vulgar say, ‘played straight’ and thus he served as an admirable foil to the comic extravagances of his companions.

It is customary, I am told, for spectators to select a favourite character; though my creations are dear to me as children, and impartiality should reign, I cannot forbear to commend Actor Two played by Lorna Thompson, whose rendering of Mr Lestrade, though I recollect no such personage in my own chronicles, was executed with a vivacity that provoked laughter most uproarious. His costume, too, was worn with a grace that merits the highest encomium; and here, let us raise our collective hats to those ingenious artificers of the wardrobe department, whose labours, though oft unseen, lent lustre to the stage.

If it be true, as the sages aver, that a village is requisite for the rearing of a child, then verily the self-same village was summoned to the Herculean labour of crewing this most ambitious play. The stage, like some enchanted wheel, did revolve with a grace so consummate that we were transported from parlour to counting house, from foggy street to festive hall, with a facility that bespoke the hand of genius. The properties, those humble adjuncts to dramatic art, were ever in their appointed place, obedient to the will of the players, and one trembles to conjecture the pandemonium that must have reigned in those mysterious regions behind the curtain.

Mr Scrooge, that venerable misanthrope, did at times thunder forth with a voice so sonorous as to chill the marrow, and anon assume the aspect of a kindly mentor to our indefatigable detective. These booming accents, I am credibly informed, were the offspring of certain ingenious contrivances wrought by the ubiquitous Mr Michael Merry, who, like the element of water, insinuates himself into every crevice of the theatrical machine. In one of his more tender humours, Scrooge lent his aid to Sherlock in rekindling that pristine ardour for the art of detection; a scene which moved the heart and tickled the fancy in equal measure. My anti-heroic creation was embodied with a fidelity most admirable by one Christopher Wallace, a gentleman, I am assured, bearing no consanguinity to Actor Three, though the coincidence of nomenclature might suggest otherwise.

And what shall I say of Actor Three? Lou Wallace, a creature of Protean versatility. From the bespectacled sobriety of Doctor Watson to the frolicsome exuberance of young Ralph Fezziwig, she traversed the gamut of character with a facility that drew peals of laughter from the auditory. As Fezziwig, indeed, she provoked such merriment that one marvels what manner of mothers brings forth such whimpering, capering sprites, though, as the vulgar proverb hath it, ‘some mothers do’.

Laura Eddy as Actor Four, in her delineation of Irene Adler, awakened memories of a certain lady whose society I enjoyed, alas, too frequently, amid the bleak solitudes of Nantucket: a lady whom my esteemed friend Mr Edward Lear did subsequently immortalise in verse. Yet it was her grotesque and Hogarthian Mrs Dilber that stamped itself indelibly upon the tablet of recollection. A performance so rich in comic deformity that it might have leapt bodily from the pages of The Fourpenny Magazine.

Eliot Swain as Actor One, that nimble and ingenious spirit, did hobble upon the scene as Tiny Tim Cratchit, and anon metamorphose into the doddering Mr Topper. A feat accomplished with a comic agility that suggested the manipulation of invisible strings. Nor was his triumph confined to the realm of pantomime, for as Martha Cratchit, Steph Cotter also playing Actor One outmanoeuvred Sherlock himself with a verbal dexterity and timing so exquisite that the house rang with laughter.

Old Joe, what a study in confusion and mirth, was essayed by Mr Dawson, who, if rumour speak true, is twin to the aforementioned musician; though why their progenitors, in a freak of Grimsby eccentricity, should have bestowed upon both the appellation of Pete, is a mystery that baffles conjecture. 

The Old Lady, that vigorous virago, was incarnated by Mrs Annie Woolmington, whose handbag, wielded with Amazonian vigour, became an engine of terror and delight. Her advent upon the boards was hailed with coos of approbation, bespeaking her popularity with the frequenters of this temple of Thespis.

But who, I ask with all the earnestness of a moralist, infused this play with the breath of life? Whose cunning hand, invisible yet omnipotent, tempered the exuberance of the actors, propelled the action with the velocity of a train of firecrackers, and transmuted the leaden ore of manuscript into the gold of living drama? To Miss Hannah Sayer, be her name inscribed upon the scroll of Fame, belongs the honour of this brave conception, this riotous, whimsical, and altogether delectable spectacle.

To the Barn Theatre I tender my heartfelt gratitude for the resurrection of my ancient play; to the players, my profound admiration for the vivifying spirit they have breathed into its venerable frame. A night of rare enjoyment! A feast of folly and fancy! A triumph of art and audacity.

I remain, Sir, with the most profound respect and unwavering devotion, your obedient and humble servant