It is all very well for such things to occur in fiction. To varying degrees, we all have s
ecrets which we do not want even our closest friends to learn, but few of us have skeleton
s in the cupboard. The only person I know who has a skeleton in the cupboard is George Car
lton, and he is very proud of the fact. George studied medicine in his youth. Instead of b
ecoming a doctor, however, he became a successful writer of detective stories. I once spen
t an uncomfortable weekend which I shall never forget at his house. George showed me to th
e guestroom which, he said, was rarely used. He told me to unpack my things and then come
down to dinner. After I had stacked my shirts and underclothes in two empty drawers, I dec
ided to hang one of the two suits I had brought with me in the cupboard. I opened the cupb
oard door and then stood in front of it petrified. A skeleton was dangling before my eyes.
The sudden movement of the door made it sway slightly and it gave me the impression that
it was about to leap out at me. Dropping my suit, I dashed downstairs to tell George. This
was worse than 'a terrible secret'; this was a real skeleton ! But George was unsympathet
ic. 'Oh, that,' he said with a smile as if he were talking about an old friend. 'That's Se
bastian. You forget that I was a medical student once upon a time.'