The Redhead of Rajastan, Chapter 7 The Case of Count Davidoff
Constable Aravind handcuffed Malachi Ford. He and Sgt. Winthrop escorted the distraught pianist to police headquarters.
Theoretically, all residents of Rajastan were equal in the eyes of the law, regardless of color or creed. Truthfully, though, had Count Davidoff been arrested for suspicion of murder of, as Patel described him, “an American pianist … of Ethiopian heritage” or Jasmine, ’twas unlikely Chief Constable Angus McGregor would have requested an audience with the sultan the next day to inform him of the matter.
Saturday morning, Monsieur Jacques Bourdette, who normally slept in on weekends, was at the police forensic laboratory immediately after breakfast. The ex-chemistry professor, who had traded academic life for a police lab in sunny Asia, personally analyzed the remnants of the Cuba Libres that Davidoff and Jasmine had drunk. He discovered nicotine liquid, the sort used for weedkiller.
An hour or two later, Dr. Cameron, the police surgeon, found nicotine in Count Davidoff’s bloodstream. The autopsy also revealed the most cirrhotic liver he’d ever seen in a man under 40. He took several photos, to save for when he returned to the University of Bombay’s medical school, which he did for a semester every two or three years.
Chief Constable McGregor waited until Monday before interrogating Ford. This gave him the weekend in jail to stew.
“Good morning, Mr. Ford. I am G. R. Premchand, attorney at law,” a brown-skinned man in traditional clothing introduced himself to the prisoner. “Mem-sahib Jackson sent me to assist you.”
“That was right nice of Miss Cynthia. But how is Jasmine doing? Is she all right?”
“Jasmine is all right,” Premchand replied. “Mem-sahib Cynthia is worried about you.”
The door opened and Chief Constable McGregor stepped inside. “Ah, Mr. Premchand, good to see you again.”
“Chief Constable, I will need a few minutes to speak to my client for a few minutes,please.”
“I need to speak to him, too,” McGregor said.
Premchand glanced at Ford, and seeing no objection, said “We can listen, but right now, he is exercising his right to remain silent and will not be answering any further questions.”
“That seems rather a waste of my time,” McGregor muttered. “Ford, we have motive, method, and opportunity. A confession would simplify things greatly. For my own edification, I would be grateful if you told me why you killed Count Davidoff, especially since you risked Jasmine’s safety, doing so.”
Premchand shook his head. “My client has nothing to say at this time.”
#*#*#*#*
“Did you kill Nikolai Davidoff?” Premchand asked.
“Not on purpose.”
“What did you do, and why?”
“I just wanted to get Jasmine away from that man. It was just supposed to make her a little bit sick, not hurt her. And if he hadn’t stolen her drink, he would’ve been fine.”
“Sorry, Your Honor, but I killed a foreign nobleman by accident is not likely to impress the judge,” G. R. Premchand pointed out. “Davidoff was a friend of the sultan.”
#*#*#*#*
To be continued
a
“Chief Constable McGregor, Angus McGregor,” Bailiff Singh called.
The chief constable stepped forward. He wore his dress uniform. Singh offered a Bible. McGregor stepped into the witness box, then placed his hand on the Good Book to take the oath.
“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God? Singh asked.
“I do.”
“Please state your full name and occupation for the record,” the judge directed.
“Angus Robert McGregor, Chief Constable of the Rajastani Police Force,” he stated, although he knew the judge knew that perfectly well.
