Miss Holmes

Or: My Sister’s Keeper

A new play by Christopher M. Walsh.

London, 1881. A mysterious man arrives at Betham Royal Hospital, more commonly known as Bedlam, and demands to see a particularly troublesome patient: Miss Sherlock Holmes (Katie McLean Hainsworth), private investigator for London’s female population. Fetched from confinement by her brother Mycroft (Chris Hainsworth) but under the sword of Damocles if she continue with “this nonsense,” Miss Holmes is introduced by her acquaintance Dr. Elizabeth Garrett Anderson (Abie Irador) the first accredited female doctor in England, to one of Dr. Anderson’s protege’s, Dr. Dorothea Watson (Mandy Walsh), a veteran of the infamous Surgeon’s Hall Riot. Contracting the good doctor to serve as her companion and “conscious,” so as to keep her from the windy side of the law and her brother’s displeasure, Miss Holmes plunges into the case of Mrs. Lizzy Chapman (Katie Nawrocki) whose husband Thomas (John Henry Roberts), an inspector for Scotland Yard, runs through wives at an alarming rate.

Playwright Christopher M. Walsh has created not only a glaring look at social injustice of the Victorian era, and the roots that strangle us today, but has also gifted us a frightfully stirring mystery, well worthy of any Doyle adapter, a ripping caper complete with chases, reverses, mortal peril, hidden clues, sudden twists and of course the long shadow of Moriarty, a far off but unstoppable asteroid hurtling towards 221 B.

Director Paul S, Homquist and scenic designer Ashley Ann Woods have conjured the very atmosphere of London, all smog and gas light, where every passerby carries some dark secret or fear. The whole play, from top to bottom, carries it’s burning embers of mystery, but is also well versed in its humor, carried to a T by Hainsworth’s exuberance (and surprising but hilarious addendusm by Dr. Michael Stamford (Michael Reyes), Dr. Watson’s erstwhile suitor, and Inspector Lestrade (Christopher M. Jones) whose private investigation of Chapman leads him to work with, and develop a darlingly sweet affection for, Sherlock). And for sweetener it possesses a great deal of heart as two loners grow into an unlikely friendship, battered by a hostile world, where a woman cannot own her own property, is barred from seeking employment, and be carted off to asylum at the whim of her male guardian. “Tell me, Sherlock,” Dr. Watson asks, “This work you do, is it … safe?” “My dear Doctor Watson,” comes the impassive reply, “When was the last time you felt safe?”

Above and beyond its many merits of as a mystery, the play offers a bright and blazing addition to the great Holmes Mosaic. It’s shocking to see how Sherlock, far removed from being a rude, eccentric, “damaged Penguin” who can barge into crime scenes and people’s parlors without thinking twice, is relegated, like so many women, to the shadows: actively barred from police investigations and treated like a dangerous lunatic by nearly all of society. Amid all her linguistic dexterity and bright-eyed glee (taking equal enjoyment in cracking Scotland yard, finding a killer, and puzzling out her new flatmate), Hainsworth fracturing stoicism as she reflects the immense pressures trying to curb her boundless mind and energies. And when those pressures are brought to bear her unbridled terror is heart achingly authentic. Walsh, too, summons up true fire as the rightful angry doctor. Watson’s diminishing discomfort with the dangerous world she finds herself in, is equalled by Walsh’s lovingly detailed care for her wayward charge. The two hold the mirror up to nature and make luminous performance both signally and in tandem.

As a social commentary, and as a heart-in-mouth mystery, and haunting variation on an old tune, Miss Holmes is an astonishingly good play, and a wonderful showcase for a talented writer and two phonically skilled actresses. I dearly hope that we will be treated to further installments of Miss. Holmes and Dr. Watson in the years to come.

Warning: live gunfire.