Title: The Kidnapping of Mark Twain: A Bombay Mystery
Author: Anuradha Kumar
Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books
An hour passed as Henry, back in his rooms at the Byculla Club, waited for Abdul to return from the doctors’ bungalow. He had taken a message from Henry to Maya. He would not be back to have dinner with the Clemenses that evening. ‘Don’t give Maya memsahib the message in front of them,’ Henry warned, and Abdul gave him his usual long-suffering look. He really wasn’t an idiot, Henry thought to himself ruefully. ‘And if she asks more, tell her some urgent business came up.’ Henry’s face darkened, for he wouldn’t tell her about his intentions of tailing Bancroft, even accosting him. ‘And come back fast, we need to…’
Abdul looked at him expectantly, but Henry paused, pursed his lips. ‘I will tell you when you are back.’
He looked toward his desk, where his prized Colt Bisley lay in the locked second drawer. A brand-new model, with its five-inch barrel, that he had bought in London. Henry didn’t want to use it, especially on Bancroft and he hoped the other man wouldn’t make it difficult for him. Freddie Bancroft had quite a reputation, one that preceded him. He had first trained as a dentist and then worked as an insurance agent in Philadelphia before he had set out to make a magician of himself. It was an ambitious hope, and Bancroft could be impatient. The time when the
New York papers had reported unfavourably about his show, when his illusions had not worked, and his card tricks had bored much of the audience, Bancroft had thrown a tantrum, throwing his magician’s props on the seated audience. He had then burst into the offices of the New York Journal. He had accosted the editor on the late evening shift, accusing him, and the paper, of favouring the other magician Alexander Hermann, and insisted that the next day the office itself would vanish into thin air.
A portion of the office was indeed found ablaze early the next morning, but Bancroft had an alibi. There were many people who had seen him on the return train to Philadelphia. And the culprits were found to be two workers who were part of the union of newspaper workers. But Bancroft later bragged about it, that he could indeed hypnotize people to do his bidding.
He had made sure people in Bombay knew about this too, and he was determined to stage his own show at the Rippon Theatre on Grant Road. Bancroft had dropped flyers all over, had demanded advertising space for himself in the Gazette, and was also soliciting funds from the likes of Albert Sassoon, Shapoorji Bengalee, and the others, to build those elaborate sets he so wanted. But, of course, Henry, his fellow countryman, hadn’t been of much help, nor had he pulled his weight with the customs people.
Henry sighed. He was letting his jealousy get to his head. Bancroft must have added to his skills in the months he was in Bombay. For he had impressed Maya, and in a far shorter period of time, Mark Twain too, it would appear. And perhaps, Henry thought, Bancroft wanted Twain to write about him, an entire piece in the American papers about the magician’s immense popularity in the East. And now, it would appear that Bancroft may have been the last person to actually see Mark Twain, for he must have peered into his room, as he had Boehme’s, and it was likely, he did know a thing or two.
Henry looked at his notes on the table, and realized with some consternation that he had forgotten a meeting. With a man he disliked as much as he did Bancroft, but when business mattered, Henry knew he had to be quite the professional. Arthur Pease, the tireless campaigner against opium, the vices of drinking, and prostitution, had expressed an interest in the electric fans. They were needed, Pease had said, for the big meetings and assemblies he called every once in a while, in the Parsi meeting halls, and the town hall, and especially at the Reformatory Institute that was a particular favourite of his, for he always found a willing and suppliant audience here.
An hour later, Henry felt there was little point waiting for Abdul in his study. The longer he was on his own, the more he would fret over Twain and think sullenly about Bancroft. So Henry resolutely set off first for the police headquarters, and then to meet with Arthur Pease in Khetwadi, that lay a bit after Crawford Market. This was where Pease lived in a small bungalow, part of which doubled up as a healing centre for addicts.
Henry left a note for Abdul by the table near the hat stand, next to the silver embossed tray that usually held the keys, messages, and letters. Come to…, and he wrote the address. House next to Daji clinic. Crawford Market. Come as soon as you see this.
He called for a carriage, from the many standing aimlessly by the club. The coachman, a Pathan judging from his build and turban, saluted smartly as he jumped down from his seat to hold the door open. ‘The police station first,’ Henry said in a low voice, ‘and then someplace else. I will tell you later. You do have the time, I hope?’
‘Good, sahib, very good,’ the coachman said, nodding to his helper who would ride with him. The boy resting at the foot of the statue that everyone called the Standing Parsi, came running up, and the carriage shook momentarily as he jumped up behind. ‘Go fast, all right?’ Henry said, looking through the window.
The man nodded, gently tapping the pony, a young, spirited brown animal, with his whip, and then, looking over his shoulder said, ‘They are sending a lot of the police toward Sewree and Parel, the workers are angry. They really anticipate trouble, and they are stopping us from going there.’
(Extracted from The Kidnapping of Mark Twain: A Bombay Mystery by Anuradha Kumar. Published by Speaking Tiger Books, 2023)
About the Book: In 1896, Mark Twain arrives at the docks of Bombay, wife and daughter in tow, and, after attending a party in his honour, vanishes from his room at the iconic Watson’s Hotel in the dead of night.
Desperate to find the legendary writer and avoid an international incident between his country and Britain, the American Trade Consul, Henry Baker, teams up with Abdul, his trusted aide, and Maya Barton, a free-spirited Anglo- Indian with surprisingly intuitive detective skills. But they have their task cut out for them: Mark Twain’s disappearance appears to be entangled with a thriving opium trade; an intimidating, self-righteous preacher; an anxious magician who walks on stilts; a professional thief on the run; and a powerful labour leader, Tuka, whose young wife is found strangled in her bed.
Full of fascinating period detail and delightful cameos—and awash with suspense—The Kidnapping of Mark Twain is a thrilling page-turner.
About the Author: Anuradha Kumar was born in Odisha. She studied history at Delhi University and management (specializing in human resource management) at the XLRI School of Business, Jamshedpur. She has worked for the Economic and Political Weekly. She has an MFA in Writing from the Vermont College of Fine Arts (VCFA). Her stories have won awards from the Commonwealth Foundation, UK, and The Little Magazine, India. She writes regularly for Scroll.in. Her stories and essays have appeared in publications like Fiftytwo.in, The India Forum, The Missouri Review, among others. She has written for younger readers as well. This present work is her 11th novel.
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