Chasing Columbus

Buttermere Lake, English Lake District

Buttermere Lake, English Lake DistrictBlackie Silver cursed aloud as he stumbled across the car park, staring balefully across Buttermere Lake whilst wondering where it had all gone wrong. A large, heavy built and balding man in his mid sixties, his florid face belied his predilection for copious amounts of brandy. With a large grey moustache, one eye slightly off centre and a passion for modern jazz he cut an eccentric figure in the neighbourhood. To the locals he was a sorry looking but familiar sight, forever stumbling around trying to find his battered Land Rover. He owed his status, as owner of the largest house for miles around, to his nouveau riche class-loving father Sebastian Beckman. A short stocky bull necked man, Beckman had arrived in the British Isles after the Second World War as an Austrian refugee. A dour, unsmiling man he had quickly married an equally dour English woman called Janice Silver and taken her name.

The Silver’s had found the ancestral pile near the village of Buttermere in the Lake District; a place called Hogthistle Hall overlooking Buttermere Lake with the Haystacks fells dominating the skyline to the southeast. The house was a wreck but Sebastian’s fortune soon restored it to its former splendour. Their first offspring was Josef, nicknamed Blackie due to his childhood habit of being permanently dirty. Three years later, a daughter Elizabeth followed and Janice threw herself into the role of lady of the manor with the appropriate airs and graces. To all intents and purposes, a refined lady of impeccable lineage, persistent local rumour had it that one side of her family came from common seafaring stock. In reality, Janice was the daughter of Claire Silver, who tragically drowned during the sinking of the liner "Lusitania" by the German navy at the start of the Second World War.

At eighteen Blackie discovered the delights of the local pub and brandy, his excesses culminating in a car crash that killed a local horse, causing him to lose his right eye in the process. Worse was to follow, five years later his father and mother were killed in a car crash without leaving a will. At the age of twenty-three Blackie inherited everything much to his sister Elizabeth’s horror. Unable to persuade Blackie to share the estate, she resorted to the courts and failed. Bitter and filled with hatred, she left Buttermere, later meeting and subsequently marrying a young psychologist. Blackie proceeded to spend money prodigiously on drink and gambling until the exasperated family solicitor, Thornberry, warned him he was on his way to becoming insolvent. Something had to be done to resolve the situation and that something was a woman.

Constance Hershey was moderately pretty and subject to a domineering mother, Ivy. With money, but no status, Ivy’s sole role in life was to force Constance into a decent marriage. This game plan was hindered by the embarrassment of an illegitimate child, the result of an affair between Constance and an itinerant sailor. At Ivy’s insistence, her grandson had gone to live anonymously with his father’s family in the Caribbean shortly after his birth, and had no further contact with his mother’s family.

At Thornberry and Ivy’s instigation, Constance agreed to meet Blackie. What she saw repelled her as much as the estate appealed, so putting her finer feelings aside for the opportunity to live in such a vast house they married in indecent haste. Instantly Blackie’s immediate monetary problems were gone. Both marriage partners felt that they did not have exactly what they wanted from the marriage, but at least Blackie now had someone to look after the estate. Bored with her husband’s drunken behaviour Constance duly took a firm hold of the estates finances and leased some of the land to local farmers to create steady revenue back into the Silver coffers. Relieved, and well aware that his wife found him somewhat lacking, Blackie was free to head back to the bottle.

Then one evening came a fateful call that changed everything. Blackie, half-drunk and alone in the house, took a long distance phone call from an agitated young man claiming to be Constance’s long estranged son, Joe, living in the Caribbean. Recovering from the immediate shock of discovering his wife had a son; Blackie quickly learnt that Joe was in financial trouble. Unable to tell if the young man was genuine or stoned he listened, intrigued by a long tale of hidden Caribbean treasures that followed the man’s monologue bemoaning his debts. However, even this wondrous story of riches did not detract from Blackie’s rage at Constance’s deception and after she returned that evening to a furious husband, their estrangement started. Two weeks later Blackie embarked on a monumental drinking session.

The next day, after a long liquid lunch, Blackie drove unsteadily back alongside the lake to The Hall determined to clear the air with Constance. It was early evening as the old Land Rover, grunting and rattling more than usual, pulled up in front of The Hall. Blackie staggered out still the worse for wear and saw a light burning in Constance’s private suite. He fell through the front door, stopping dead in his muddy tracks across the flagstone hall at the sound of a piercing high-pitched scream. “It can’t be true!” he heard Constance’s voice sob. “Constance?” he called to her, there was silence. He staggered across to the stairs and tried again, “Constance where are you?” From away to his right he heard a muffled noise and the sound of a window hurriedly opening. Constance saw Blackie and wailed. "My son, Joe!” “What is it?” growled Blackie, panting heavily. “He’s dead,” she wailed. “Killed whilst diving, they say it was an accident.”

“Who told you this?” Blackie’s face clearly showed the confusion he felt.

“He’s been murdered! I know it, someone attacked him.”

“Attacked, how?” asked Blackie grimly. “With a knife! I spoke to him after you did, he said ‘they’ were after him and would try to kill him,” the words tumbled from Constance’s anguished mouth. “He was going to come and see me. They wanted to know what he found.” She continued. “Who are ‘they’?” asked Blackie, hearing a noise again. Someone was in the house; Blackie was convinced of it. The sound of glass smashing in the distance broke the moment. Blackie lumbered across to the window and peered out, quickly spotting a small wiry man staggering across the lawn.

“Bloody hell!” Blackie cursed loudly. Storming downstairs into the kitchen, he grabbed his old hunting rifle. Through the open window, Blackie heard the man curse in a foreign language, before ducking out of sight.

“Come out or I shoot,” he roared, incandescent with alcohol fuelled rage. In the distance, he heard a horse neigh and his eyes caught a movement to the left of the greenhouse. The bastard was making a break for it; spinning around Blackie fired at the retreating backside and was rewarded with a shout of pain. “Don’t kill him,” yelled Constance rushing up behind him. “Who was he?” Blackie spat back over his shoulder, reluctant to take his eye off the intruder. “A Spanish gentleman called Matarife,” replied Constance. He brought me the news.”

“And what else, eh?” Blackie’s eyes narrowed as he sneered, “He seemed to know his way around this place.”

“How dare you!” shouted Constance. “My son is dead and all you can do is make wild accusations! Leave me alone you useless drunk!” Blackie lowered his gun and sought refuge in his drinks cabinet; it really was all too much. Cursing again as the familiar liquid fire of the brandy warmed his throat and belly he felt his head start to spin again. Listening to the sound of his distraught wife sobbing upstairs, Blackie swore, knocked back a whole cut glass tumbler of brandy and collapsed unconscious onto the sofa. He regained consciousness about two hours later in pitch darkness. Glancing at the old clock on the mantelpiece, he saw that it was two o’clock in the morning. Shivering in the gloom he realised the electricity was off and he was freezing. Jumping up he grabbed a candle and a box of matches left next to the open fire. He lit the fire and slumped back down onto the couch, letting the warmth permeate his body as he dozed back into a fitful sleep.

He awoke gasping, choking and coughing as he jerked awake. He saw an inferno of fire around him. Roaring in pain, Blackie staggered drunkenly out of the house and up into the hills behind The Hall, conscious that something was very wrong.

Nearly an hour later he fell into a stream before passing out again. He presented a fearsome sight on the side of Sour Milk Ghyll, his head throbbing. He stumbled back down the hillside, the moonlight glinting off his bald-head, eventually reaching the small village of Buttermere and hammering on the door of the Bridge Inn. It was his local and he took great pride in its plaque commemorating a visit from Queen Victoria and Prince Albert. “You! Where the hell have you been?” roared Jake Scowcroft, the landlord, from an upstairs window, peering down onto his bedraggled customer. “We’ve been trying to contact you. Everyone is looking for you!”

“I need a drink, Jake.” Blackie mumbled through dry, cracked lips. “You need to get home Blackie, that’s what you need to do, your house is on fire; I’ve called the fire brigade. They’re on their way!”

“Bugger!” growled Blackie sobering up instantly as he remembered with blinding clarity what had been bothering him. “My wife’s in there.”

“What? I’ll give you a lift, you’re in no fit state to walk back alone,” said the dishevelled Scowcroft opening the front door.

Blackie swore aloud as they drove to the bottom of the drive, got out and saw The Hall. The place was an inferno; outside on the gravel drive the fire brigade stood together hopelessly shaking their heads. Constance would have had no chance. Getting hold of the shocked landlords arm, he pushed him back into his car and demanded that he return to the pub. Sneaking the keys to his Land Rover out of his own pocket, he thanked the fact that he had been too drunk to put the vehicle in the garage earlier. Turning the key in the ignition, he sped off after Scowcroft, keeping the lights off until he had turned the first bend.

“They’ll find you,” said Scowcroft as he seated a bemused Blackie in the Inn, passing him a large brandy before settling himself down to hear Blackie’s version of the evening’s events. “You need to go to the police and plead manslaughter on diminished responsibility. I can vouch for how much you had to drink even before you left here,” he continued, amazed to find himself at the centre of such a dramatic situation. “I’m not going to prison.” Blackie stated flatly, shaking his head to emphasise his words. Scowcroft shook his head. “I don’t think you realise the enormity of what has happened, man, you’re in big trouble. Your wife is almost certainly dead and the house is razed to the ground. The finger of suspicion will point at you. Plus, even if you are telling the truth and you didn’t set fire to the place, there’s someone who knows the true state of relations between Constance and you. You have to admit, it doesn’t look good.”

He poured a strong black coffee and set it down next to the brandy glass, motioning Blackie to drink it. “I am telling you, it wasn’t my fault,” retorted Blackie angrily. “It doesn’t matter. You shouldn’t have left The Hall. You should have told the fire brigade you were there. The police will arrive there in a matter of minutes, count yourself lucky they were elsewhere tonight and you missed them. I can’t believe you have dragged me into this.” Scowcroft shook his head and scowled at Blackie. “Poor Constance, whatever she did, she didn’t deserve this.”

“I need to get away.” Blackie cut across the landlord. “How? They have helicopters and spy satellites,” replied Scowcroft, “You would do better to go and face up to it”

“There is someone I can call,” whispered Blackie to himself and slunk out to the Gents to find some privacy.

Swiftly returning to the bar, Blackie sat back down and drained the last of his brandy.

“Insurance job?” said Scowcroft an idea dawning on him.

“What do you mean?” Blackie puzzled.

“Make them think you burned also! That’s the way I would do it. Your solicitor, that old chap, can then direct the money to you abroad.”

“A new life in the sun,” muttered Blackie cautiously.

His inspired telephone call had been long distance and seeing a glimmer of hope of escaping he became re-energised as adrenalin took hold. He had to move fast; the police would already be on their way here. “Thanks for the help Jake, see you sometime.” Leaving the landlord speechless, he banged out of the door and jumped into the aged Land Rover; it was not registered on the roads so he doubted anyone would have records of it. With a bit of luck he would become a non-person. Plans began to form in his mind, knowing that his emergency long distance contact was already arranging the supply of a fake passport and other items.

Inspector Weckman stared impassively at the scene. A local policeman of many years experience, he had been caught at the other side of the Lakes on a hit and run accident when the first news of the fire arrived. By the time he got there, nothing much of the old hall was left. It was only now, the following morning that the fire had burnt out enough for forensics and uniformed police to start the slow process of exploring the ashes. After noting the absence of Blackie Silver, and following a conversation with a foreign man claiming to have information regarding the cause of the fire, Weckman concluded that this case might well develop into a murder enquiry.

Two days later a stooped figure dressed as a minister of the cloth, sporting a false greying beard and wig, boarded a P&O cruise ship leaving Southampton docks for the Caribbean. Intent on his disguise, Blackie did not notice the diminutive man on the liner’s other side who glared down at him before limping into the crowd of passengers. The man, called El Matarife, looked coldly across at Blackie; if he had his way, the Englishman would be dead already but he had his orders. A short, lightly built man El Matarife had trained as a jockey in his youth. The loss of a finger following a bad fall ended his promising career in that profession and he now worked in the world of private protection and surveillance. He glanced across and sighed; tailing the shambling Blackie should be easy money.