To the Editor,
With a tremor of excitement that rivals the Bard’s most dramatic quakes, I write to you not from the hallowed halls of academia, but from the humble (and decidedly less dusty) confines of my Fitzrovia cellar. It is here, amidst damp earth and forgotten jars of jam, that I unearthed the literary treasure that has set the literary world at large ablaze.
As reported, it is no mere trinket, dear Editor, but a fragment, a tantalizing whisper of genius, penned in the very hand of the Great Bard himself. Yes, I, Mrs. Agatha Butterton, avid baker and occasional dabbler in dusty history, stumbled upon what many scholars are now desperately calling the “Fitzrovia Fragment,” a half-finished Shakespearean play of breathtaking intrigue.
It happened during a routine excavation of my cellar floor, a project inspired by a particularly stubborn leak and a healthy dose of boredom. Beneath layers of Victorian floorboards and cobwebs older than any sonnet, my trowel struck gold – a leather-bound book, brittle with age yet pulsating with an undeniable energy. With bated breath, I unfurled its yellowed pages, my eyes catching upon the familiar, elegant script: “Written by William Shakespeare, yes really.”
The following hours were a blur of fevered reading and mounting disbelief. The fragment, though incomplete, paints a vivid picture of a royal court simmering with betrayal, a forgotten corner of the Shakespearean universe teeming with new faces and old ghosts. Hints of Hamlet, Ophelia, and even Claudius dance at the edges, but here they share the stage with a motley crew of conspirators, rebels, and spirits bearing secrets from beyond the grave.
The language, while reminiscent of Shakespeare’s later, bolder works, crackles with a raw energy, pushing the boundaries of his established canon. It is unmistakably the Bard’s voice, yet somehow…evolved, adapted to a stage more turbulent than the Globe.
I know, dear Editor, the skeptics will scoff. A play unearthed from a Fitzrovia cellar, whispered from the lips of a baker with a penchant for plum crumble? But I implore you, consider the evidence! The script’s authenticity has been tentatively confirmed by leading experts at the British Library, their initial shock gradually giving way to an awestruck reverence.Every fiber of my being, honed by years of devouring Shakespearean sonnets and devouring Eccles cakes in equal measure, screams truth.
However, my dear Editor, my story is far from over. The fragment ends abruptly, leaving me, and the entire literary world,hanging by a thread. But fear not, for I refuse to let this unfinished masterpiece languish in my dusty cellar. I am continuing my excavation, armed with trowel, tea and an unshakeable conviction. The rest of the play, I am certain, lies slumbering just beneath the floorboards, waiting to be awakened.
Therefore, I urge you, dear Editor, to keep your inkwells full and your presses primed. The literary world is on the cusp of a revelation, and Mrs. Agatha Butterton, baker, amateur archaeologist, and accidental Bard-whisperer, will be at the forefront. Stay tuned, for the final act of this drama is yet to unfold.
Yours in quill and cobblestone,
Agatha Butterton
