The Concealers

by Janet Pywell

He leans forward to inspect my work.

  ‘No one would know,’ I add.

  ‘Apart from the toothpick,’ he says.

  I pick up a small piece of white icing and using my little knife; I sculpture dimples into the golf ball.

  ‘There.’ I hold it out to him. ‘Would you like to do the honours?’

  He glances at me then takes the golf ball made of icing and, removing the toothpick with his left hand, he places the golf ball over the minuscule hole left by the toothpick. Then he glares at me and strokes his moustache thoughtfully. ‘Only you and I know about this. Remember that, Ronda.’

  ‘I could never forget it.’

  He picks up the small knife I used for gouging out the sponge and holds it between us, the blade pointing at me.

  ‘Many people, cleverer than you, have tried to double-cross me but they never win.’

  He raises the knife to my chest. I lick my lips, wishing my heart wasn’t thumping so hard that I might faint.

  ‘If this all goes according to plan, Ronda, then there’s a substantial bonus for you – that’s if my wife is happy—’

  ‘Hello!’

  We both turn at the sound of a voice. Hugo is standing at the kitchen door. His smile fades when he sees the knife, and he scowls.

  ‘Herr Schiltz was just looking for some fruit juice for his wife.’

  I turn toward the fridge as Herr Schiltz places the knife back on the table. He checks his dressing gown is tied, and he takes the glass from my hand without saying a word.

  ‘Is everything alright?’ Hugo asks after he’s gone.

  ‘Fine.’ I turn my attention to the cake, but Hugo wants an answer.

  ‘Was he threatening you?’

  ‘No, don’t be silly.’ I grin. He looks doubtful.’ Okay, okay, so he did.’

  I pick up the knife, the way Herr Schiltz had done, and I turn it on Hugo and say in a silly deep voice, ‘Give me some juice, now, bitch!’

  * * *

  I continue decorating the cake, rolling and sculpting coloured fondant icing and by the time I’ve finished, the kitchen staff begin to arrive. They greet me with oohs, and ahhhs, and comments like, Isn’t that amazing. You’re so talented, Ronda and, I wish I could make something like that.

  Only haughty Mrs Long sniffs silently. She busies around me, bossing the staff, getting them organised for the breakfast preparations which I will supervise.

  When it’s finished, I carry it through to the pantry where I know it’s safe and cool. When I return to the kitchen, Jim is standing in the doorway. He’s a tough-looking, broad-shouldered thug. He’s squeezed into a tan-coloured jacket, and his thighs are so massive that when he sits down at the long table, his legs are spread apart.

  As I prepare breakfast for the guests, Mrs Long fusses around him, and it’s not long before she has served him a cooked breakfast. All the time I work, I’m conscious of him watching us all and listening. I wonder if he’s aware of the hidden ring in the pantry and if he’s been entrusted with guarding it all day.

  ‘Are you going grouse hunting or to Loch Ness?’ I ask him.

  He stares at me before answering gruffly, ‘I might stay here if Herr Schiltz doesn’t go out.’

  Julie intervenes. ‘More toast, Jim?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘More bacon?’

  ‘No. I’ve had enough.’ He stands up, without a word of thanks. He adjusts his trouser belt and swaggers from the kitchen. Mrs Long tuts and mutters something under her breath as she picks up his empty plate. She thrusts it at Dan.

  ‘Here,’ she says. ‘Clear this up.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Long.’ Dan shares a complicit smile with Julie, and she grins back.

  ‘Let’s just be thankful we’re not married to him,’ I whisper, and she giggles.

  The rest of the breakfast is easy. There’s a buffet laid out in the grand dining hall on the ground floor. Hugo takes the individual guests’ orders for a variety of cooked breakfasts including eggs, sausages, bacon, hash browns, tomatoes and beans plus copious amounts of toast and preserves.

  I prepare smoked haddock, cooked rice, eggs, parsley, and add a sprinkle of curry powder, a knob of butter and cream to make a typical Scottish kedgeree. I’m conscious of Mrs Long watching over my shoulder, waiting for me to make a mistake making one of her national, and popular, breakfast dishes. I’m meticulous about the presentation, and I call the waiting staff to carry the plates through.

  Mrs Long is happy to watch, which leaves me free to finish off the picnics that the two groups are taking. I reach for the basket hampers and look around for the plates and cutlery.

  ‘Right, everyone is happily eating breakfast, and the Glorious Twelfth is upon us,’ Dan cries cheerily.

  He watches me organise the picnic hampers while he explains, ‘It’s the beginning of the six-week hunting season when the tourists flock to our moors to shoot the grouse. How delightful …’

  ‘You don’t approve?’ I ask, concentrating on the picnic food, removing a stilton and cheddar cheese, dried tomato and basil flan from the oven that I’d made earlier.

  ‘I don’t think it’s necessary to kill.’

  ‘Well, it is.’ Mac slurps his coffee in the corner of the kitchen. He’s accepted a bacon roll from Mrs Long, and he eats hungrily, standing up while pretending not to look at Julie.

  Mrs Long reaches for her mobile. She leaves the kitchen by the back door.

  Dan shakes his head in mock bewilderment. ‘So, killing grouse is obviously imperative to our national heritage – what do I know?’ Dan shrugs.

  He’s helping me pack the wicker picnic baskets with white linen napkins and gleaming cutlery.

  ‘They’re not just grouse,’ Matt sounds grumpy. ‘They’re iconic – the Lagopus scoticus – the red grouse – is our national bird—’

  ‘Ah, that explains it all then.’ Dan shakes his head in annoyance and replies sarcastically, ‘It’s our national bird, so let’s shoot them all—’

  ‘It’s the king of game birds, and it’s unique to the UK.’ Mac’s tone is terse.

  Dan stares at him. He’s busy washing pans and stacking the dishwasher, but he calls across the room, ‘Ah, that’s good then.’

  Mac leaves his mug on the table and stomps to the back door where he pauses, and he turns to glare.

  ‘Look here, Dan. It flies at speeds up to 70mph, and it can change direction, in flight, in an instant—’ Mac clicks his fingers.

  ‘I’m surprised they manage to shoot them at all if they’re that fast.’ Dan stands his ground, and the two men eyeball each other.

  ‘Listen, sonny. You should be proud of your heritage.’

  ‘I am,’ Dan replies. ‘I just don’t believe in shooting harmless and defenceless birds.’

  ‘Are you a vegan?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what are you complaining about?’ Mac asks.

  ‘Will you collect the picnic hampers later?’ I ask Mac, anxious to avoid a rift in the kitchen.

  He nods and says gruffly, ‘We’re leaving at ten – it’s an hour’s drive to the moors, but the ladies aren’t leaving until eleven.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ I reply and automatically begin to work faster, conscious of the work still to do for the hampers.

  Julie asks, ‘Why are they grouse hunting? They could go deer stalking or pheasant shooting or even salmon fishing?’

  Mac shakes his head in annoyance. ‘It’s not for us to question them.’

  ‘I think anything involving shooting animals is a barbaric sport,’ adds Julie, looking up from the counter where she’s wiping and preparing chestnut mushrooms. ‘With grouse hunting, they normally have eight or ten hunters with guns who hide in butts—’

  ‘Butts?’ I look up.

  ‘They’re like shelters, and they’re made of wood or stone, and they’re normally covered in heather, but then there’s a team of beaters who push the birds toward the butts so the guns can shoot them.’

  ‘It�
�s cheating using beaters,’ says Dan. ‘They can’t even shoot them without any help.’

  I listen to their descriptions, watching Mac’s face growing redder.

  He replies angrily, ‘It’s a sport, and that’s that. Don’t let the guests catch you talking like this.’ Mac glares at Dan.

  Julie doesn’t look up.

  Mac continues, ‘It’s how we make our living, so don’t forget that. They pay your wages.’

  He pushes past Hugo, who arrives holding a few bottles of wine in his arms. He looks bemused. ‘For the hampers,’ he whispers.

  Dan suddenly laughs aloud. ‘He’s shaken and stirred!’ He raises his fist in mock triumph.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Hugo grins and then sidles up beside me and adds cheerily, ‘I’m missing a bottle of Chablis.’

  ‘It’s the mice,’ I mouth silently back at him. ‘You missed dinner last night; they were all over the kitchen.’

  He grins. ‘No worries, I have more. The guests didn’t drink as much as I thought they would last night.’

  ‘Oh, good. Perhaps the mice may like another bottle tonight.’

  ‘Only if it’s shared.’ He holds my gaze, and I wonder if he’s flirting.

  ‘It was shared last night but not all the mice were at the party!’

  I turn away, enjoying the banter, but wondering how I will get upstairs and into Herr Schiltz’s bedroom without being seen. Will Jim be here all day, keeping guard? They’re hardly likely to leave that ring in the cake unmonitored.

  * * *

  After the men have left for the grouse shoot, Paula and I arrive at the minibus at the same time. She comes down the front stone steps while I appear from behind the wall and the path from the kitchen.

  Hugo and Mac are placing the hampers in the mini bus. Three hampers for the ladies’ trip to Loch Ness.

  I linger, enjoying a welcome break after breakfast and the sunshine on my face.

  ‘Are you going with them?’ I ask Paula.

  ‘I might join them later. I’ve got to send some emails.’

  ‘Did Herr Schiltz go with the men, grouse shooting?’

  ‘Yes, but Jim drove him in his car, so he’ll probably be back early.’

  I pull back away from the minibus as Chloe, Wilhelm’s American girlfriend and Freya, Louisa’s daughter, come down the steps together.

  It’s quite apparent that Freya wants to look at her phone, but Chloe is insisting on telling her about the research she’s done on the Loch Ness monster.

  ‘They say it’s an elephant, you know,’ she drawls.

  Freya stands on the step next to Paula; they’re the same height, and she glances at her phone.

  ‘If you think about it, it makes sense.’ Chloe uses her arm, her hand, wrist and elbow, to explain further. ‘The trunk is the head of the monster, then the head and back are partly submerged in the water, creating the illusion that the monster has a skinny head and two humps.’

  Freya looks at her disdainfully. ‘That must be true then, Chloe. Scotland is full of wild elephants.’

  ‘Freya,’ Louisa calls from the top step. ‘Make sure you have some sun lotion, although it’s cloudy you can still burn in this weather.’

  Freya glances over her shoulder, ignores her mother, and asks Paula, ‘Is this our minibus?’

  ‘Yes.’ Paula replies, smiling, but Freya ignores her. She steps into the bus and sits at the back.

  Chloe leans toward Paula. ‘She’s annoyed because she wanted to go grouse shooting with Jack and the men,’ she explains to Paula.

  I watch the exchange knowing I should leave and go back to the kitchen, but I’m curious. I watch Louisa and her best friend Fran, who looks preoccupied, descend the steps.

  Fran says, ‘I’ve got to talk to you, Louisa.’

  ‘Well, you can. We’ll be together all day.’ Louisa laughs.

  ‘No.’ She lowers her voice. ‘I need to tell you something, and it’s vital. Can we make time to talk privately later?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Louisa waves at Roma. ‘At last,’ she calls. ‘Come on, or we’ll have to go without you. We’re on a tight schedule, and Friedrich wants us back by four.’

  Roma looks worn and tired out as if she’s been awake most of the night. She’s wearing a pretty yellow dress and bright pink lipstick. She’s flustered, in a hurry, breathlessly waving a floaty, floral scarf.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, Louisa. The children insisted on Skyping this morning. They wanted to wish you a happy birthday, but I said we’d call them later.’

  ‘Lovely.’ Louisa smiles. ‘But not to worry, Roma. We can speak to them later. Friedrich will love that. Everyone’s on board, aren’t they, Paula? We must be back in time.’

  Louisa climbs on the minibus, the driver turns the engine and Paula and I watch it drive off.

  I smile. ‘That was uneventful.’

  Paula shrugs. ‘They must be back on time. I’ve heard there’s going to be an announcement later.’

  ‘About what?’

  Paula shrugs and sighs. ‘I don’t know, Ronda. I wish I did because it would make my life much easier.’

  ‘Really?’ I prompt kindly. ‘It can’t be easy. They’ve all got such different personalities.’

  ‘Oh, Ronda, I’m treading on eggshells. Some of them hate each other, and it’s a minefield of emotions. I feel as though it’s all going to explode.’

  ‘Well,’ I grin. ‘Let’s hope it’s not going to happen this weekend.’

  ‘I wouldn’t put any money on that,’ Paula replies. ‘Underneath it all, they’re quite vile to each other.’

  * * *

  While there’s a lull in the preparations and the kitchen staff make coffee and spend time chatting, Tina calls me. It’s the perfect excuse, to take the call and I step outside into the sunshine where a blackbird is chirping happily on the fence.

  ‘Hi, Tina. How’s Molly?’

  As we talk, I walk around the castle via the beautiful gardens towards the open doors on the terrace and the Grand Hall. I find a quiet spot away from the door.

  ‘She loves being here with me. I think she loves me more than she does you now.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’

  ‘How’s it going up there? Has Joachin been in touch?’

  I tell her quickly about the family and Jim. I walk away from the house across the manicured lawns, staying under the shade of the chestnut trees around the edge of the grounds, I whisper, ‘He’s asked me to go into the Führer’s bedroom.’

  Tina laughs before reprimanding me.

  ‘You were supposed to be his eyes and ears, nothing more. Take care, Ronda. It’s not worth risking your reputation – or your life.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Yes, but I bet that’s what the first Mrs Schiltz thought.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve been doing some investigating. Mrs Schiltz was killed in her own home.’

  ‘But they caught the guy – the gardener.’

  ‘They thought they did, but his family say there’s still mounting evidence to clear his name, even though he’s dead. They’re furious. They maintain one of the Schiltz’s family killed her.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, that’s the thing. Have you heard of Magnum’s Transport?’

  ‘Yes, they ship a lot of valuable artefacts between museums for exhibitions and things like that. I did some catering in an art gallery a few years ago. You know the sort of thing, if a gallery lends a collection or even one painting to another gallery in another country, then it has to be transported – very carefully – and discreetly.’

  ‘Well, that company is owned by Herr Schiltz.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, presumably there was a scandal five years ago. It was all brushed under the carpet, but it was at the same time the first Mrs Schiltz – Iris Schiltz was killed.’

  ‘Do you think Inspector Joachin knows all this?’

  ‘Of course he does, Ronda. That’s why he wan
ts you to keep an eye on things.’

  ‘It’s difficult if you don’t know what to look out for.’

  ‘Well, be careful – and phone me tonight. It doesn’t matter what time you finish work; I want to speak to you.’

  ‘I promise I will.’ I hang up.

  Moving quickly, I follow the shade of the trees, then I’m on the terrace and inside the open doors and the Grand Hall. I look up to check the interior balcony, but it’s empty. Instead of heading for the corner tower, I run up the sweeping staircase, two steps at a time and then head to the far corner tower. It’s two floors up from here. The old wooden door creaks. I cringe and pause, and then I step softly up into the round, spiral stone staircase.

  I know there are three bedrooms in each tower. Gunter and Roma’s bedroom door is closed. The second bedroom door is open – Jim’s room. I hear a woman singing from inside and I assume the maid is making the bed and cleaning the bathroom. I haven’t much time until she comes upstairs.

  I lengthen my stride and pause on the next floor, wondering if I should knock on the door to Herr Schiltz’s room. As a precaution, I tap lightly. When there’s no answer, I open it and step inside. One of the perks of this private accommodation is that there are no locks on the outside and only an old hook and catch on the inside, used for security reasons once someone goes to bed. It’s all about trust.

  I look around at the cluttered mess. The four-poster bed is unmade. Pillows, cushions, and covers are strewn on the floor, and I resist picking them up. I scour the room for a suitable place for documents. There’s a small bureau positioned in the window and on top of that, several pieces of paper. I flick through them, scan reading, quickly.

  For this reason, I hereby resign my position.

  I gasp.

  There’s a voice from outside, I open the door slowly, and the narrow hallway appears silent. I close the door behind me, and it’s only then that I hear the lumbering steps of a heavy man climbing the stairs, his breathing rapid. He’s coming closer. His shadow is on the wall. My heart’s racing, my hands are clammy, and sweat pours from my forehead.

  ‘Jim?’ a voice shouts from below, and the heavy steps below me pause. He’s barely a few feet away.

  ‘Yeah?’

  Paula shouts up, ‘He said his briefcase is beside the bed. He’s waiting in the library.’