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	<title>The Repository of Excellence &#187; detective</title>
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		<title>Regrets</title>
		<link>http://www.therepositoryofexcellence.com/2011/06/26/regrets/</link>
		<comments>http://www.therepositoryofexcellence.com/2011/06/26/regrets/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sun, 26 Jun 2011 13:12:56 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>David</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Short Stories]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[aberforth rake]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[death]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[detective]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[regrets]]></category>

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		<description><![CDATA[“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&#8230; 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&#8230; 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 [...]]]></description>
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