“Regrets, Stamford?” the detective replied as he lay on his death bed. “Only one.”
I let the silence sit between us for a moment before responding. “That’s not bad, Rake. One regret in sixty-five years is bloody impressive.”
He stared into space then, contemplative as always.
“What was it?” I asked.
He sighed and turned away, glancing at the morphine drip beside his bed. “The death of your wife, the beautiful Mrs. Stamford, remains… unsolved.”
My heart thundered against my chest as he turned back to face me. “That was thirty years ago, old boy. We’ve been through so much since.”
He smiled, and for a moment I saw the old Aberforth Rake shining through. “Rake and Stamford,” he said, fighting a coughing fit. “Embarrassing the constabulary wherever we went. How many did we solve?”
I leaned forward and took his hand. “Dozens, hundreds. You were the world’s greatest detective.”
He looked into my eyes then, as lucid as he’d ever been. “I was. And despite my regret, Stamford… I’ve always known who killed your wife.”
An icy chill spread through my body. I didn’t reply, praying he would be wrong but knowing how unlikely that was.
“The carefully cleaned wine glass,” he said, “The series of alibis, red herrings and dead ends. The actions of one schooled in murder…” He paused and looked away again.
“…of a master detective…”
“Aberforth, I –”
“…or his assistant, Stamford.”
I released his hand.
“You knew, all this time?”
“Of course.”
Silence.
Eventually, I nodded. “What now?” I asked, standing. “You turn me in?”
He shook his head, examining the backs of his liver spotted hands. “No,” he sighed. “Not after thirty years, Stamford.”
I wanted to say something, to give an explanation, but having none, I turned and left the room.
It would be the last time I saw my best friend, the great detective Aberforth Rake.