As the Crow Flies Read online

  OUTSTANDING PRAISE FOR JEFFREY ARCHER AND HIS NOVELS

  “A master at mixing power, politics, and profit into fiction.”

  —Entertainment Weekly

  “Archer is a master entertainer.”

  —Time

  “Archer plots with skill, and keeps you turning the pages.”

  —The Boston Globe

  “Cunning plots, silken style…Archer plays a cat-and-mouse game with the reader.”

  —The New York Times

  “A storyteller in the class of Alexandre Dumas…unsurpassed skill…making the reader wonder intensely what will happen next.”

  —The Washington Post

  “Archer is one of the most captivating storytellers writing today. His novels are dramatic, fast moving, totally entertaining—and almost impossible to put down.”

  —Pittsburgh Press

  AS THE CROW FLIES

  “Archer…has an extraordinary talent for turning notoriety into gold, and telling fast-moving stories.”

  —The Philadelphia Inquirer

  “Archer plots with skill, and keeps you turning the pages.”

  —The Boston Globe

  “Top flight…Mr. Archer tells a story to keep you turning those pages.”

  —The Washington Post

  “Great fun!”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  THE PRODIGAL DAUGHTER

  “Chalk up another smash hit for Jeffrey Archer…an exceptional storyteller.”

  —John Barkham Reviews

  “Fast-moving and compelling.”

  —Library Journal

  KANE & ABEL

  “A smashing good read!”

  —The Des Moines Register

  “I defy anyone not to enjoy this book, which is one of the best novels I have ever read.”

  —Otto Preminger

  “A sprawling blockbuster!”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Grips the reader from the first page to the last. A smash hit.”

  —John Barkham Reviews

  “Archer is a master entertainer.”

  —Time

  ALSO BY JEFFREY ARCHER

  NOVELS

  Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less

  Shall We Tell the President?

  Kane & Abel

  The Prodigal Daughter

  First Among Equals

  A Matter of Honor

  As the Crow Flies

  Honor Among Thieves

  The Fourth Estate

  The Eleventh Commandment

  Sons of Fortune

  False Impression

  A Prisoner of Birth

  SHORT STORIES

  Cat O’ Nine Tales

  A Quiver Full of Arrows

  A Twist in the Tale

  Twelve Red Herrings

  To Cut a Long Story Short

  The Collected Short Stories

  PLAYS

  Beyond Reasonable Doubt

  Exclusive

  The Accused

  PRISON DIARIES

  Volume One: Hell

  Volume Two: Purgatory

  Volume Three: Heaven

  SCREENPLAYS

  Mallory: Walking Off the Map

  JEFFREY ARCHER

  AS THE CROW FLIES

  TO FRANK AND KATHY

  CONTENTS

  CHARLIE

  1900–1919

  CHAPTER

  1

  CHAPTER

  2

  CHAPTER

  3

  CHAPTER

  4

  CHAPTER

  5

  BECKY

  1918–1920

  CHAPTER

  6

  CHAPTER

  7

  CHAPTER

  8

  CHAPTER

  9

  CHAPTER

  10

  CHAPTER

  11

  CHAPTER

  12

  DAPHNE

  1918–1921

  CHAPTER

  13

  CHAPTER

  14

  CHAPTER

  15

  COLONEL HAMILTON

  1920–1922

  CHAPTER

  16

  CHAPTER

  17

  CHAPTER

  18

  CHARLIE

  1919–1926

  CHAPTER

  19

  CHAPTER

  20

  CHAPTER

  21

  MRS. TRENTHAM

  1919–1927

  CHAPTER

  22

  CHAPTER

  23

  CHAPTER

  24

  CHARLIE

  1926–1945

  CHAPTER

  25

  CHAPTER

  26

  CHAPTER

  27

  CHAPTER

  28

  DANIEL

  1931–1947

  CHAPTER

  29

  CHAPTER

  30

  CHAPTER

  31

  MRS. TRENTHAM

  1938–1948

  CHAPTER

  32

  CHAPTER

  33

  CHAPTER

  34

  BECKY

  1947–1950

  CHAPTER

  35

  CHAPTER

  36

  CHAPTER

  37

  CHAPTER

  38

  CATHY

  1947–1950

  CHAPTER

  39

  CHAPTER

  40

  CHAPTER

  41

  CHARLIE

  1950–1964

  CHAPTER

  42

  CHAPTER

  43

  CHAPTER

  44

  CHAPTER

  45

  CHAPTER

  46

  CHAPTER

  47

  BECKY

  1964–1970

  CHAPTER

  48

  CHAPTER

  49

  CHARLIE

  1900–1919

  CHAPTER

  1

  “I don’t offer you these for tuppence,” my granpa would shout, holding up a cabbage in both hands, “I don’t offer ‘em for a penny, not even a ha’penny. No, I’ll give ’em away for a farthin’.”

  Those were the first words I can remember. Even before I had learned to walk, my eldest sister used to dump me in an orange box on the pavement next to Granpa’s pitch just to be sure I could start my apprenticeship early.

  “Only stakin’ ’is claim,” Granpa used to tell the customers as he pointed at me in the wooden box. In truth, the first word I ever spoke was “Granpa,” the second “farthing,” and I could repeat his whole sales patter word for word by my third birthday. Not that any of my family could be that certain of the exact day on which I was born, on account of the fact that my old man had spent the night in jail and my mother had died even before I drew breath. Granpa thought it could well have been a Saturday, felt it most likely the month had been January, was confident the year was 1900, and knew it was in the reign of Queen Victoria. So we settled on Saturday, 20 January 1900.

  I never knew my mother because, as I explained, she died on the day I was born. “Childbirth,” our local priest called it, but I didn’t really understand what he was on about until several years later when I came up against the problem again. Father O’Malley never stopped telling me that she was a saint if ever he’d seen one. My father—who couldn’t have been described as a saint by anyone—worked on the docks by day, lived in the pub at night and came home in the early morning because it was the