A Note from Our Chairman:Good evening, ladies and gentlemen—although I do use that appellation loosely when describing Madam Angela Prysock and Nick Cricker. Get a room, you two!
I come before you with my top hat in hand to make the most sincere and deepest apologies for the fact that the immortal author Charles Dickens is now quite dead. Dead as a doornail, as he once wrote. As I am now addressing you from the proscenium of the Music Hall Royale in London, this being the Year of Our Lord 1892, circumstances perforce require an explanation as to what the present company proposes to perform for you. You see, Charles Dickens was only halfway through the creation of The Greatest Mystery Novel of Our Time, The Mystery of Edwin Drood, when, in 1870, he took what we at the Music Hall Royale call a "dirt nap." He left not the slightest hint as to the outcome he had intended for his bizarre and uncompleted puzzle.
Of course, that one ungenerous deed of Mr. Dickens's career did not stop the publication of his novel. Named for Edwin Drood, one of the characters, it mostly tells the story of Edwin's uncle, a choirmaster named John Jasper. Jasper is secretly in love with his pupil, Rosa Bud—who is also Drood's fiancée. Not to mention that Jasper has a taste for what we call "self-medication" here in London: opium. Making matters worse, our virginal ingénue, Rosa, has caught the eye of hot-tempered Neville Landless. Naturally, Drood and Neville become immediate enemies.
When Drood disappears on Christmas Eve, suspicion of foul play immediately falls on Neville. Drood is still missing at the end of the extant text. Is Neville a murderer—but indeed, is Drood even dead, or merely missing? I for one have my suspicions about the sinister Mr. Jasper.
So, ladies and gentlemen, there you are (as we sing in our opening number, "There You Are") wondering just how in the bloody hell we propose to sing a musical comedy about an unfinished novel. I have an answer for you. When together we reach that point in our story beyond which Charles Dickens wrote no more, I shall be asking you to vote upon key questions regarding the outcome of our plot. Our company will then make its most earnest effort to meet this supreme challenge: to contrive An Ending in Accordance with Your Specifications.
So come one, come all! Let us all be as vulgar and uncivilized as is legally possible. Kick off your boots, loosen your corsets, and enjoy yourselves. And if you should arrive alone and require companionship up through the final curtain, you need only to speak to our stage manager, Mr. James Throttle, whose pleasure it shall be to ensure that you are never lonely again.
With my most ardent and felicitous anticipation for your forthcoming visit to our theatrical domiciliary, I am,
Your most humble servant,
Chairman
Music Hall Royale, London
1892
