Diviners Nemesis I Avenger

By Maggie Shaw

When Liz Kirkland marries archaeologist Alec Graham after a whirlwind romance, she little realises the part she will play in his attempts to bring his arch enemy to justice. The death of Alec's friend, the actor Andrew Ferry, leads her into the dangerous world of the psychic organisation P.S.I. and the demonic powers at its heart. Will she destroy the evil there before it can destroy her? This story of revenge is set against a backdrop of occultism and the paranormal in 1970s London.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eregendal
• Release date: Nov 20, 2019
• ISBN: 9781999607135

Book preview

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Part 1: Card 6 - The Lovers

Interpretation:

true love; a choice between love and ambition

1 : 1

‘That’s him!’ cried Bethany Broome. She ran out into the High Street to catch the man, her copper hair streaming and her blue wool suit flapping in the cool breeze.

Liz Kirkland watched her friend from the doorway of the Antiquarian Bookshop, well used to Bethany’s impulsiveness. She leaned against the window frame, a relaxed young woman with long black curly hair, wearing an embroidered blouse and folk-weave skirt. Along the street a tall well-dressed dark-haired man stepped into a taxi which quickly drove him away. Without thinking Bethany flagged down another taxi and set off in classic pursuit.

‘What’s that about, Liz?’ asked portly Harry Simms, looking up from a case of books he had bought at auction. He wiped the dust off his glasses with the hem of his beige work-coat.

Liz made way for a customer to enter the shop and re-joined Harry at the box of books they were sorting, as the new customer immersed himself in the paperback shelves.

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ she said, a mischievous glint in her green eyes. ‘That’s the man Bethany thinks sold Mike the drugs he got done for having in his pocket that couldn’t possibly have got there if it hadn’t been a plant.’

‘Do I detect a slight hint of disbelief there, Miss Kirkland?’ Harry said.

‘Not for Bethany; but her boyfriend is quite another matter. That’s why her father keeps trying to buy him off, only Mike hears the sums go up and holds out for even more.’

‘Isn’t thirty a little old for that?’

‘Maybe, but twenty-one recurring isn’t.’

Liz pulled a small red volume out of the box and found she was holding a book on her wanted list: Astronomica by Manilius in the original Latin with an English translation.

‘Uncle Harry, can I keep this one and offset its price against my wages?’

He checked the book and agreed on a nominal amount.

‘Your fortune telling is subsidising the shop, Liz. Shouldn’t it be the other way around? It might be cheaper if you worked in the betting shop next door. But there again, perhaps not.’

The customer interrupted them to pay for three paperback westerns. He was a curly-headed young cockney, and Liz saw him pick up one of her business cards from the counter as Harry opened the till for change.

She waited for the customer to leave before asking, ‘Is that a regular?’

‘No - first time here, though I have seen him in the High Street from time to time. Another client for you, perhaps?’

‘I hope it’s his wife or sister – I dread his type. It’s awful reading the cheapest Tarot spread with only the odd grunt in response.’

Heavy footsteps pounded down the rickety stairs from the apartment above, heralding the arrival of Harry’s son Guy, a blond Adonis in neglected sweatshirt and jeans. His striking face was flushed with exciting news.

‘We’ve got the go-ahead! Our first really big order: ten thousand brochures for the trophy company up the road, with an option for more!’

Harry and Liz congratulated Guy, knowing what the order meant for his young business. His life revolved completely around the Print Workshop, as Liz had discovered the year before when she had gone out with him for three months. After she had realised he was far more in love with his press than with her, she had discreetly relinquished him to her new flat mate, student art teacher Frances Fitzwarren. Fran had long been impressed with Guy’s daydreams and did not mind in the least being placed second to his struggling business.

As Guy was enthusiastically reaching the end of his second version of the good news, Bethany walked back into the bookshop, dishevelled and disappointed. She flopped tiredly down on a bentwood chair by the till.

‘I lost him!’

‘Who, Mike?’ Guy asked.

‘If only,’ Liz chipped in.

‘No, the man who slipped Mike the drugs he got done for carrying that he said couldn’t possibly have been there,’ Bethany replied. ‘I was going to give him a piece of my mind.’

‘Probably just as well you missed him then,’ Guy said: ‘I can just see the headlines: Drug Baron arrested for Wimbledon shooting – I couldn’t stand being nagged to death, he confessed.’

‘Oh, shut up!’ Bethany protested, slapping him lightly on the shoulder.

‘Don’t fret, Bethany,’ Harry assured: ‘Justice will catch up with him soon enough.’

1 : 2

Liz arrived home from work that evening to find Fran in the kitchen preparing their evening meal. Fran was as poor a cook as Liz and only ventured into the kitchen because they had arranged to cook evening meals for each other to ensure they both regularly ate something more substantial than beans on toast.

‘What is it?’ Liz asked from the hallway of their flat, not recognising the powerful aroma.

‘Frozen lasagne with some extra toppings. Guy asked me to try out the recipe for his New Woman page,’ Fran replied.

She placed the lasagne back in the oven and emerged from the steaming kitchen, a striking young woman who dressed with style and distinction despite her low budget. Her fine straight chestnut hair was cut with Egyptian angularity in harmony with the severe lines of her dark brown dress, and in contrast to the soft gentle form of her slender freckled face. After gaining an art and design degree Fran had continued her studies by training to teach because the student hours at her college gave her plenty of spare time to work with Guy at the Print Workshop. It also meant she was often home to take Liz’s phone messages. With a bright smile she handed over Liz’s open appointments diary.

‘You have a client this evening, Liz: one Mr Graham. I tried to persuade him to let you call on him but he insisted it wasn’t safe.’

‘Oh, a loony! Just what I need.’

‘He sounded educated and well off with it so at least you should get a good run for his money. Starters at seven thirty for the whole works and an all evening job.’

‘I don’t know how you do it, Fran: my business has trebled since you started answering the phone. Just stay in with me if he’ll let you and I’ll buy you fish and chips for tea tomorrow.’

‘Done!’

Fran returned to the kitchen to serve up their dinner. The lasagne proved far more palatable than her usual burnt offerings. They raced through the meal to give themselves enough time to tidy the lounge before the client arrived.

The doorbell rang precisely on seven thirty. They peered through the lace-curtained window to get some idea of what to expect. A large black Lincoln Continental four-door limousine had parked outside. At the wheel sat the curly-haired young man who had picked up Liz’s card in the bookshop that morning. The client was out of view in the shadows of the porch. Fran hurried out to the hall to bring him in while Liz arranged herself on the sofa with her Tarot cards on the coffee table before her. She settled her thoughts to prepare for the reading ahead.

‘Liz, this is Mr Alec Graham,’ Fran introduced, ushering her client in. He was a short slender man of about forty, elegantly dressed in a well-tailored suit of midnight blue. His dark hair and neatly trimmed beard were flecked with a few strands of silver. His eyes were compelling and forceful, dominating a distinctive face which Liz recognised with the prompt of his name. She stood up and offered him her hand in welcome.

‘Dr Graham, I am honoured. And also a little surprised that an archaeologist of your reputation should visit a fortune teller.’

His eyes scanned her in quick appraisal. She was small and slender, a fragile creature clothed in rustic simplicity with untidy long black hair and flashing green eyes. How much was image, he wondered, warning himself to guard against the temptation of liking her.

‘Very impressive, Miss Kirkland. You have done your homework well,’ he said, ignoring her offered hand.

She waved away the ignored handshake in a gesture inviting him to take a seat.

‘I did no homework, Dr Graham. I read your paper on Minoan symbolism, in last autumn’s Archaeological Society journal. You made some interesting points. Would you like some tea?’

‘No, thank you.’

He wordlessly instructed Fran with a pointed glance to leave their company. She calculated that Liz would be safe with him and acquiesced, making an excuse to return to the kitchen. When she had gone, he sat down in the tired armchair on Liz’s right, his full attention on the fortuneteller as she shuffled her Tarot cards.

‘How did you come across that article, Miss Kirkland?’

‘One doesn’t work in a place like the Antiquarian Bookshop without being given some access to publications on one’s favourite subjects.’

‘You are interested in Minoan symbolism?’ His disbelief was plain.

‘Not just Minoan. The psychic and the occult use symbols to express things beyond words and to describe complicated things in simple terms. By studying mankind’s collective symbolism, I can understand more of the images I receive in divination and trance.’

He turned away in scorn, and by chance his eyes fell on the small red book she had brought home with her. He picked it up in surprise.

‘Manilius? Then you are serious about this?’

‘Oh, yes: my principal interest is in the spiritual realm - my fortune telling is just a way to practise the use of symbolism and pay some of my bills. And I sense you have no personal interest in fortune telling. You are not here tonight to have your cards read or your horoscope cast. But you are here with a problem - no, you are here to have a question answered.’

‘How much of that is your psychic ability, and how much have I given away?’ he asked, resisting the temptation of letting her impress him.

She sensed his inner conflict between scepticism and belief and challenged it with a dramatic flourish. Adroitly, she spread the Tarot pack face up across the coffee table and selected the Empress, card three from the Major Arcana. He looked with uncommitted interest at the crudely drawn picture of a robed woman seated on a throne surrounded by a sheaf of ripe corn, a river and a wood.

‘This is Juno. She has great influence over you, but she is only Hera in a younger guise, so I am being told,’ she said.

He knew at once that she was talking about his adoptive mother and demanded suspiciously, ‘Told by whom?’

She observed him thoughtfully for a moment, sensing his discomfort that she might see through his reserve.

‘Are you sure you want me to continue, Dr Graham, or would you rather ask me your question and go? I wouldn’t be offended: only my bank manager would find cause to complain.’

He laughed despite himself, caught out by her unexpected remark.

‘No, let us continue. I would like to see how you use your knowledge of symbolism to play the parlour game of Tarot.’

She realised his remark was deliberately provocative and did not rise to the bait. Instead, she handed him the full deck of cards and asked him to shuffle them.

‘Please ask your question as you shuffle the cards. If you would prefer not to tell me at this stage, I can give you a general reading, which you would have to apply to your circumstances.’

‘I have no intention of giving you any clues,’ he replied, and handed back the shuffled deck.

She laid out the top fifteen cards face up on the coffee table in three rows of five. After reflecting on the pattern, she explained what she saw.

‘This row of five represents your past. Death, coupled with the four of Wands, tells of an inheritance which brought, by the seven of Wands, a change of work concerning wrong-doers or deceivers – the Devil – for which, by the Ace of Pentacles, you have had to make a business trip recently.’

‘That is true enough. Carry on.’

‘The middle row of five represents your present situation. A deceiver – the Magician – has become a false friend – the inverted four of Cups – and you are risking a lot through him – the six of Swords. From the nine of Wands and the Enchantress, you are being advised about the matter by a powerful woman.’

Liz paused, her finger on the last card in the middle row as she waited for his response.

‘Part of that is true enough’ he admitted. ‘But I don’t think any powerful women know about it.’

‘Her power is not necessarily worldly command or monetary wealth. She is a woman you may not realise is powerful, because her strength lies in her ability to wield men whichever way she wants without their realising. Shall I move on to the future?’

‘I see. Yes.’

‘The Hanged Man, representing an unconventional or painful truth, results in the Lightning Struck Tower, implying that your old way of life will change dramatically as the deceptions strip themselves, releasing you from the negative situation which surrounds you. The nine of Pentacles suggests you will end up paying out money for it in a form of self-promotion. And the three of Cups implies the final result, a love affair or an engagement.’

‘Huh! Happy families!’

‘If it wasn’t there, I wouldn’t say it. From bottom to top, column one, the death of a relative attracted a deceiver about whom you may learn a disturbing truth. Column two, the inheritance and its implications made the deceiver a false friend, but in the future that should change dramatically when his true colours are revealed. Column three, it is in your work that you are taking the risks, which should pay off with care. Column four, the deceivers that your work is concerned with, are the subject of the powerful woman’s advice, and it is because of her you may spend money on self-promotion. Column five, it is because of your recent business trip that you are involved with the powerful woman, with whom you are likely to have an affair or get engaged.’

‘Interesting.’

After some thought he slid a photograph out of his inside jacket pocket.

‘That is enough Tarot. Have you seen this man before?’

She recognized the person in the photo as the man Bethany had chased after that morning. With a brief nod she handed the picture back, disliking the psychic shadow surrounding his image.

‘Yes, and you are right not to trust him, Doctor. He is connected with something that disturbs you, I sense: someone dear in lilies. But he was not the culprit - he is some distance away in the linking of hands.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The number of people connecting him with the dear one who died: they never met.’

Her words brought back his memories of his brother’s tragic death. He wondered how she could be so accurate about his understanding of the events when she knew nothing about him. Reason still nagged that this was a sham, that her words could be interpreted in any one of a hundred ways. But emotionally he felt naked in her presence and was both fearful of her and attracted to her because of that.

‘Where did you meet this man?’ he asked.

‘I haven’t actually met him. I just saw him once, this lunchtime, as my friend Bethany Broome chased him up the High Street. They disappeared in separate taxis. Why does he have the Greek letter psi on his tie?’

Dr Graham feigned surprise at this and checked the photo to make sure the logo could be seen.

‘So he has. You were overheard saying he is suspected of drug trafficking.’

‘Are you a part-time policeman?’ she demanded, unsure of the confused image she was now perceiving of him. When the confusion dissolved, she saw the person in lilies again, the image tinged red with his burning anger.

‘No, just someone who does not like drug traffickers!’ he spat.

‘Bethany claims this man slipped her boyfriend Mike a packet of drugs just before Mike was arrested for possession. So when she saw him in the High Street she went chasing off after him to give him a piece of her mind.’

‘Why didn’t she simply go to the police?’

‘Because she is besotted with Mike, and sadly he is about as straight as a nine pound note. Her father has tried to buy him off, but he keeps hearing the price go up so he’s sitting tight.’

‘Her father isn’t by any chance Stanley Broome, the sculptor, is he? That rambling place not far from me, by the common?’

‘The very same. Not that I know him that well. Bethany and I have been friends since schooldays. So no, I would not go to the police either – that’s her decision to make. Anyhow, I have only hearsay evidence.’

He felt disconcerted to find his questions being answered before he had asked them.

‘What made you say something as specific as that?’ he asked.

She smiled gently at him, pitying this reserved stranger who felt so compelled to fence words with her. All too easily she saw through his persona to his psychic image of a sword. He was a classic example of the Tarot symbol of intellectualism: quick-witted but cold and merciless. For all his elegance he was a dangerous man. She answered him tactically.

‘Nothing made me say that. It just seemed the most appropriate thing to say.’

He patronised her with an indulgent smile for her defensive response and was surprised to see her blush. She had an air of vulnerability which he sensed was born of her innate truthfulness. He found it refreshing after the falseness of the world he had left behind outside her door. Here where he had least expected it, he had stumbled across a woman who interested him. He wanted to see her again, away from her professional setting, and quickly thought up a ruse to achieve that.

‘There is no need to be so cautious, Miss Kirkland. I promise you I intend no argument. Would you be willing to help me prove the involvement of this man in the photo with the drug trade?’

‘Only if he is definitely involved already, or has a chance to prove his innocence if not. I won’t frame him.’

‘I wouldn’t expect you to do that!’

She refused to let his impatience daunt her.

‘Then how do you intend to make him betray himself?’

‘He is already my acquaintance. You and I could be friends: with a visit to a beautician and a hairdresser and a good clothes shop you should be able to make a reasonably convincing girlfriend for me. I will invite you and Miss Broome over for dinner with Pierre and myself. During the evening you can take him to one side and proposition him for some drugs.’

‘Do I really look that bad?’ she laughed, making light of his unintentional insults to make him gently aware of them. She asked more seriously, ‘Is this man psychic?’

‘I don’t know. Possibly, when he has that logo on his tie.’

‘The Greek letter psi, Neptune’s trident? If