As the Crow Flies

by Jeffrey Archer

  Daniel smiled. Although he enjoyed the play, he found he enjoyed Jackie’s company during the interval, after the show and then later over a meal at Romano’s—a little Italian restaurant she seemed acquainted with—even more. He had never come across anyone who, after only knowing him for a few hours, could be so open and friendly. They discussed everything from mathematics to Clark Gable, and Jackie was never without a definite opinion, whatever the subject.

  “May I walk you back to your hotel?” Daniel asked when they eventually left the restaurant.

  “I don’t have one,” Jackie replied with a grin, and throwing the rucksack over her shoulder added, “so I may as well walk you back to yours.”

  “Why not?” said Daniel. “I expect Mrs. Snell will be able to supply another room for the night.”

  “Let’s hope not,” said Jackie.

  When Mrs. Snell opened the door, after Jackie had pressed the night bell several times, she told them, “I hadn’t realized there would be two of you. That will mean extra, of course.”

  “But we’re not—” began Daniel.

  “Thank you,” said Jackie, seizing the key from Mrs. Snell as the landlady gave Daniel a wink.

  Once they were in Daniel’s little room, Jackie removed her rucksack and said, “Don’t worry about me, Dan, I’ll sleep on the floor.”

  He didn’t know what to say in reply, and without uttering another word went off into the bathroom, changed into his pajamas and cleaned his teeth. He reopened the bathroom door and walked quickly over to his bed without even glancing in Jackie’s direction. A few moments later he heard the bathroom door close, so he crept out of bed again, tiptoed over to the door and turned out the light before slipping back under the sheets. A few more minutes passed before he heard the bathroom door reopen. He closed his eyes pretending to be asleep. A moment later he felt a body slide in next to his and two arms encircle him.

  “Oh, Daniel”—in the darkness Jackie’s voice took on an exaggerated English accent—“do let’s get rid of these frightful pajamas.” As she pulled at the cotton cord on his pajama bottoms, he turned over to protest, only to find himself pressed up against her naked body. Daniel didn’t utter a word as he lay there, eyes closed, doing almost nothing as Jackie began to move her hands slowly up and down his legs. He became utterly exhilarated, and soon after exhausted, unsure quite what had taken place. But he had certainly enjoyed every moment.

  “You know, I do believe you’re a virgin,” Jackie said, when he eventually opened his eyes.

  “No,” he corrected. “Was a virgin.”

  “I’m afraid you still are,” said Jackie. “Strictly speaking. But don’t get worked up about it; I promise we’ll have that sorted out by the morning. By the way, next time, Dan, you are allowed to join in.”

  Daniel spent most of the next three days in bed being tutored by a second-year undergraduate from the University of Perth. By the second morning he had discovered just how beautiful a woman’s body could be. By the third evening Jackie let out a little moan that led him to believe that although he might not have graduated he was no longer a freshman.

  He was sad when Jackie told him the time had come for her to return to Perth. She threw her rucksack over her shoulder for the last time, and after he had accompanied her to the station Daniel watched the train pull away from the platform as she began her journey back to Western Australia.

  “If I ever get to Cambridge, Dan, I’ll look you up,” were the last words he remembered her saying.

  “I do hope so,” he said, feeling there were several members of Trinity High Table who would have benefited from a few days of Jackie’s expert tuition.

  On Thursday morning Daniel reported back to the Immigration Department as instructed, and after another hour’s wait in the inevitable queue, handed his receipt over to the assistant who was still slumped across the counter wearing the same shirt.

  “Oh, yes, Guy Trentham, I remember. I discovered his particulars a few minutes after you’d left,” the clerk told him. “Pity you didn’t come back earlier.”

  “Then I can only thank you.”

  “Thank me, what for?” asked the assistant suspiciously.

  Daniel took the little green card the assistant handed to him. “For three of the happiest days of my life.”

  “What are you getting at, mate?” said the other man, but Daniel was already out of earshot.

  He sat alone on the steps outside the tall colonial building and studied the official card. As he feared, it revealed very little:

  Name: Guy Trentham (registered as immigrant)

  18 November 1922

  Occupation: Land agent

  Address: 117 Manley Drive

  Sydney

  Daniel soon located Manley Drive on the city map which Jackie had left with him, and took a bus to the north side of Sydney where he was dropped off in a leafy suburb overlooking the harbor. The houses, although fairly large, looked a little run-down, leaving Daniel with the impression that the suburb might at some time in the past have been a fashionable area.

  When he rang the bell of what could have been a former colonial guest house, the door was answered by a young man wearing shorts and a singlet. Daniel was coming to accept that this was the national dress.

  “It’s a long shot, I know,” Daniel began, “but I’m trying to trace someone who may have lived in this house in 1922.”

  “Bit before my time,” said the youth cheerily. “Better come in and talk to my Aunt Sylvia—she’ll be your best bet.”

  Daniel followed the young man through the hall into a drawing room that looked as if it hadn’t been tidied for several days and out onto the verandah, which showed indications of having once been painted white. There seated in a rocking chair was a woman who might have been a shade under fifty but whose dyed hair and over-made-up face made it impossible for Daniel to be at all sure of her age. She continued to rock backwards and forwards, eyes closed, enjoying the morning sun.

  “I’m sorry to bother you—”

  “I’m not asleep,” said the woman, her eyes opening to take in the intruder. She stared suspiciously up at him. “Who are you? You look familiar.”

  “My name is Daniel Trumper,” he told her. “I’m trying to trace someone who may have stayed here in 1922.”

  She began to laugh. “Twenty-five years ago. You’re a bit of an optimist, I must say.”

  “His name was Guy Trentham.”

  She sat up with a start and stared straight at him. “You’re his son, aren’t you?” Daniel went ice cold. “I’ll never forget that smooth-tongued phony’s face if I live to be a hundred.”

  The truth was no longer possible to deny, even to himself.

  “So have you come back after all these years to clear up his debts?”

  “I don’t understand—” said Daniel.

  “Scarpered with nearly a year’s rent owing, didn’t he? Always writing to his mother back in England for more money, but when it came I never saw any of it. I suppose he thought that bedding me was payment enough, so I’m not likely to forget the bastard, am I? Especially after what happened to him.”

  “Does that mean you know where he went after he left this house?”

  She hesitated for some time, looking as if she was trying to make up her mind. She turned to look out of the window while Daniel waited. “The last I heard,” she said after a long pause, “was that he got a job working as a bookie’s runner up in Melbourne, but that was before—”

  “Before—?” queried Daniel.

  She stared up at him again with quizzical eyes.

  “No,” she said, “you’d better find that out for yourself. I wouldn’t wish to be the one who tells you. If you want my advice, you’ll take the first boat back to England and not bother yourself with Melbourne.”

  “But you may turn out to be the only person who can help me.”

  “I was taken for a ride by your father once so I’m not going to wait around to be conned by his son, th
at’s for sure. Show him the door, Kevin.”

  Daniel’s heart sank. He thanked the woman for seeing him and left without another word. Once back on the street he took the bus into Sydney and walked the rest of the journey to the guest house. He spent a lonely night missing Jackie while wondering why his father had behaved so badly when he came to Sydney, and whether he should heed “Aunt Sylvia’s” advice.

  The following morning Daniel left Mrs. Snell and her big smile, but not before she had presented him with a big bill. He settled it without complaint and made his way to the railway station.

  When the train from Sydney pulled into Spencer Street Station in Melbourne that evening, Daniel’s first action was to check the local telephone directory, just in case there was a Trentham listed, but there was none. Next he telephoned every bookmaker who was registered in the city, but it was not until he spoke to the ninth that Daniel came across anyone to whom the name meant anything.

  “Sounds familar,” said a voice on the other end of the line. “But can’t remember why. You could try Brad Morris, though. He ran this office around that time, so he may be able to help you. You’ll find his number in the book.”

  Daniel looked up his number. When he was put through to Mr. Morris, his conversation with the old man was so short that it didn’t require a second coin.

  “Does the name ‘Guy Trentham’ mean anything to you?” he asked once again.

  “The Englishman?”

  “Yes,” Daniel replied, feeling his pulse quicken.

  “Spoke with a posh accent and told everyone he was a major?”

  “Might well have done.”

  “Then try the jailhouse, because that’s where he finished up.” Daniel would have asked why but the line had already gone dead.

  He was still shaking from head to toe when he dragged his trunk out of the station and checked into the Railway Hotel on the other side of the road. Once again, he lay on a single bed, in a small dark room, trying to make up his mind whether he should continue with his inquiries or simply avoid the truth and do as Sylvia had advised, take the first boat back to England.

  He fell asleep in the early evening, but woke again in the middle of the night to find he was still fully dressed. By the time the early morning sun shone through the window he had made up his mind. He didn’t want to know, he didn’t need to know, and he would return to England immediately.

  But first he decided to have a bath, and a change of clothes, and by the time he had done that he had also changed his mind.

  Daniel came down to the lobby half an hour later and asked the receptionist where the main police station was located. The man behind the desk directed him down the road to Bourke Street.

  “Was your room that bad?” he inquired.

  Daniel gave a false laugh. He set off slowly and full of apprehension in the direction he had been shown. It took him only a few minutes to reach Bourke Street but he circled the block several times before he finally climbed the stone steps of the police station and entered the building.

  The young duty sergeant showed no recognition when he heard the name of “Trentham” and simply inquired who it was who wanted to know.

  “A relation of his from England,” replied Daniel. The sergeant left him at the counter and walked over to the far side of the room to speak to a senior officer seated behind a desk, who was patiently turning over photographs. The officer stopped what he was doing and listened carefully, then appeared to ask the sergeant something. In response the sergeant turned and pointed at Daniel. Bastard, thought Daniel. You’re a little bastard. A moment later the sergeant returned to the front desk.

  “We’ve closed the file on Trentham,” he said. “Any further inquiries would have to be made at the Prison Department.”

  Daniel almost lost his voice, but somehow managed, “Where’s that?”

  “Seventh floor,” he said, pointing up.

  When he stepped out of the lift on the seventh floor Daniel was confronted by a larger-than-life poster showing a warm-faced man bearing the name Hector Watts, Inspector-General of Prisons.

  Daniel walked over to the inquiry desk and asked if he could see Mr. Watts.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No,” said Daniel.

  “Then I doubt—”

  “Would you be kind enough to explain to the inspector-general that I have traveled from England especially to see him?”

  Daniel was kept waiting for only a few moments before he was shown up to the eighth floor. The same warm smile that appeared in the picture now beamed down at him in reality, even if the lines in the face were a little deeper. Daniel judged Hector Watts to be near his sixtieth birthday and, although overweight, he still looked as if he could take care of himself.

  “Which part of England do you come from?” Watts asked.

  “Cambridge,” Daniel told him. “I teach mathematics at the university.”

  “I’m from Glasgow myself,” Watts said. “Which won’t come as a surprise to you, with my name and accent. So, please have a seat and tell me what I can do for you.”

  “I’m trying to trace a Guy Trentham, and the Police Department have referred me to you.”

  “Oh, yes, I remember that name. But why do I remember it?” The Scotsman rose from his desk and went over to a row of filing cabinets that lined the wall behind him. He pulled open the one marked “STV,” and extracted a large box file.

  “Trentham,” he repeated, as he thumbed through the papers inside the box, before finally removing two sheets. He returned to his desk and, having placed the sheets in front of him, began reading. After he had absorbed the details, he looked up and studied Daniel more carefully.

  “Been here long, have you, laddie?”

  “Arrived in Sydney less than a week ago,” said Daniel, puzzled by the question.

  “And never been to Melbourne before?”

  “No, never.”

  “So what’s the reason for your inquiry?”

  “I wanted to find out anything I could about Captain Guy Trentham.”

  “Why?” asked the inspector-general. “Are you a journo?”

  “No,” said Daniel, “I’m a teacher but—”

  “Then you must have had a very good reason for traveling this far.”

  “Curiosity, I suppose,” said Daniel. “You see, although I never knew him, Guy Trentham was my father.”

  The head of the prison service looked down at the names listed on the sheet as next of kin: wife, Anna Helen, (deceased), one daughter, Margaret Ethel. There was no mention of a son. He looked back up at Daniel and, after a few moments of contemplation, came to a decision.

  “I’m sorry to tell you, Mr. Trentham, that your father died while he was in police custody.”

  Daniel was stunned, and began shaking.

  Watts looked across his desk and added, “I’m sorry to have to give you such unhappy news, especially when you’ve traveled all this way.”

  “What was the cause of his death?” Daniel whispered.

  The inspector-general turned the page, checked the bottom line of the charge sheet in front of him and reread the words: Hanged by the neck until dead. He looked back up at Daniel.

  “A heart attack,” he said.

  CHAPTER

  31

  Daniel took the sleeper back to Sydney but he didn’t sleep. All he wanted to do was get as far away from Melbourne as he possibly could. As every mile slipped by he relaxed a little more, and after a time was even able to eat half a sandwich from the buffet car. When the train pulled into the station of Australia’s largest city he jumped off, loaded his trunk into a taxi and headed straight for the port. He booked himself on the first boat sailing to the west coast of America.

  The tiny tramp steamer, only licensed to carry four passengers, sailed at midnight for San Francisco, and Daniel wasn’t allowed on board until he had handed over to the captain the full fare in cash, leaving himself just enough to get back to England—as long as he wasn
’t stranded anywhere on the way.

  During that bobbing, swaying, endless crossing back to America Daniel spent most of his time lying on a bunk, which gave him easily enough time to consider what he should do with the information he now possessed. He also tried to come to terms with the anxieties his mother must have suffered over the years and what a fine man his stepfather was. How he hated the word “stepfather.” He would never think of Charlie that way. If only they had taken him into their confidence from the beginning he could surely have used his talents to help rather than waste so much of his energy trying to find out the truth. But he was now even more painfully aware that he couldn’t let them become aware of what he had discovered, as he probably knew more than they did.

  Daniel doubted that his mother realized that Trentham had died in jail leaving a string of disgruntled debtors across Victoria and New South Wales. Certainly there had been no indication of that on the gravestone in Ashurst.

  As he stood on the deck and watched the little boat bob along on its chosen course under the Golden Gate and into the bay, Daniel finally felt a plan beginning to take shape.

  Once he had cleared immigration he took a bus into the center of San Francisco and booked himself back into the hotel at which he had stayed before traveling on to Australia. The porter produced two remaining cards and Daniel handed over the promised ten-dollar note. He scribbled something new and posted them both before boarding the Super Chief.

  With each hour and each day of solitude his ideas continued to develop although it still worried him how much more information his mother must have that he still daren’t ask her about. But now at least he was certain that his father was Guy Trentham and had left India or England in disgrace. The fearsome Mrs. Trentham must therefore be his grandmother, who had for some unknown reason blamed Charlie for what had happened to her son.

  On arriving in New York Daniel was exasperated to find that the Queen Mary had sailed for England the previous day. He transferred his ticket to the Queen Elizabeth, leaving himself with only a few dollars in cash. His final action on American soil was to telegraph his mother with an estimated time of arrival at Southampton.