I didn't know Margaret at all well - she was only the friend of a friend, though after meeting her briefly at a party we'd kept in touch by letter - so I was distinctly surprised when, out of the blue, she invited me to spend a few days with her.
I found her home to be an apartment in an old building not far from the cathedral, and I had to ring the communication bell to ask her to unlock the front door by remote control. She was on the second floor, and I opted to walk up the stairs rather than use the lift. I wondered, no for the first time, why she wanted to see me again after our very brief acquaintance. It did pass through my mind that it might be sexual, but when she opened the door it was immediately apparent that this could not be the case,since Margaret was clearly in poor health. She was stooped over a zimmer frame, and her face was grey and drawn with pain, which caused her to look much older than I remembered. I muttered some expressions of sympathy, and desire not to put her to any trouble, but she brushed these aside, and her voice was cheerful enough.
"Oh, don't worry about me! I've done my back in, that's all!"
"Can I help with anything?"
"Well, yes; as a matter of fact you can. But we'll deal with that later. Come on in!"
She led me into the hallway and indicated a door on the right. "You'll be in the spare room there. Dump your stuff while I get us some tea".
The spare room was odd. For a start, there was a strange, faint smell that I couldn't place. There was a door in the corner by the window, which I assumed was a cupboard, but when I tried to open it to hang my coat there, I found it locked. For want of anywhere better, I draped the coat over a chair. One wall was entirely taken up with row upon row of small wooden boxes. In defiance of all the good manners expected of a guest, I attempted to open one or two which also proved to be locked. It was all very puzzling.
I made my way to the living-room, and soon Margaret appeared pushing a trolley of tea-things. We sat and talked about nothing in particular for a while, until I finally summoned up the courage to make reference to the mysterious boxes.
"Oh yes", she said, "My collection!"
She didn't say collection of what.
"I'm very proud of my collection. There's nothing like it in the world. I guard it with my life. I've never killed for it, yet. Not deliberately, anyway".
"Not yet?" I couldn't help but ask. "Not deliberately?"
"Well, it was his fault. He tried to break into one of my boxes. And I wasn't having that. And it was an accident really, but I knew people would think I'd killed him deliberately, so I hid the body in the cupboard. That's how I did my back in. So now I can't move him, so I'm wanting you to help me lug him downstairs and into my car, and then we'll drive out and dump him somewhere. You'll help me, won't you?"
The woman was clearly raving mad. I felt I had no option but to humour her.
"Yes, I'll help you", I said. "I'll just go to the loo, and then we'll take a look at him".
But of course I didn't go to the loo: instead I grabbed my things from the spare room and fled the scene. When I'd driven a good distance away, I thought to myself: I wonder if there really was a body in the cupboard? And an even nastier thought: suppose there was, and detectives found my fingerprints all over the room; what then?
That was some time ago. I haven't heard from the police yet, but I still don't sleep easily.
