Synopsis
The Guardians are approached by Nicholas Brooke, a young London clerk recently returned from a picturesque driving holiday in rural Brittany. The problem is, Nick went out there with his Welsh fiancée Margot Prys but was forced to return to England alone—Margot simply vanished en-route in the most incredible circumstances. The local police were hopeless, and no Private Detective agencies over here are interested. Somebody mentioned that the Guardians handle unusual cases, and they’re his last hope…
The couple were driving through the Finistere coastal district, and stopped off at a pleasantly remote spot for a picnic. Margot impulsively announced she wanted to walk to the sea, even though it was clearly some miles distant. They left the car and set off, but the further they walked the more confusing the route became. Dusk set in, and the light began to fade… Nick started to get worried and wanted to turn back, but Margot was adamant: where’s her man’s sense of adventure? Eventually they crested the top of a small rise, and saw the lights of a distant village far below, twinklingly reflected in the waters of its tiny harbour. But even in the encroaching gloom it’s clearly unreachable, protected on all sides by impassably high ravines.
Still Margot presses on, seemingly obsessed. She finds a hidden track through the cliffs, just wide enough for them to slip through. They arrive in the apparently deserted village just in time to see a torch-lit procession of villagers in colourful costumes dancing off into the woods—how charming, a local carnival. They follow and witness what seems to be some sort of Pagan ceremony, taking place on a huge flat circular rock, the village girls pairing off with enthusiastic young men dressed in wolf-pelts. They get caught up in the contagious excitement themselves, drinking from proffered flagons of aromatic wine until their heads spin. Then they become separated and Nick blearily sees Margot leaving hand-in-hand with a great grey wolf, while he is himself in the process of being seduced by a petite village beauty… He passes out, and comes round next morning on a cold deserted hillside with no villagers, no circular rock, and no Margot.
Staggering into the nearest village, he quickly realises it is not the one he fleetingly visited last night. Worse, the local police refuse to take him seriously: So, Monsieur has temporarily lost his girlfriend? Sacre Bleu, whatever next. Abducted by men dressed as wolves you say? And just how much did Monsieur have to drink last night? And where exactly did this happen? Monsieur isn’t sure? Describe the village. Pah, there is no such place. Monsieur is wasting our time…
Kane and Dyball listen in silence—they in contrast can tell this really happened. Clearly Nick must have been carried off while unconscious and dumped somewhere far from the original location. The first thing to do is thus identify the mystery village. Dyball fetches some large-scale maps of the Brittany coastline, while Kane hypnotises Brooke, so that the latter can more accurately recall and describe his route. Working methodically, the pair pinpoint the site as almost certainly Tregonnec, a tiny fishing village effectively cut-off from the mainland by impassable cliffs and only reachable by boat via a narrow and dangerous sea-channel. Plenty of folklore attached to that part of the world: drowned villages, witchcraft, werewolves, female sirens who magically raise storms (then vampirise the helplessly wrecked sailors), you name it. At any rate, if Margot HAS been abducted and is being held somewhere against her will, practically the whole village must be in on it. So the preliminary approach will have to be undercover—luckily Kane is friendly with a French academic in nearby Quimper, who will probably lend them his yacht…
Sailing down the coast in the borrowed yacht, and nearing the Tregonnec channel, Kane sees he is being followed at a distance by a local fishing boat, so pretends to capsize in the shifting currents and flaps around inviting rescue. He is pulled spluttering from the sea by the huge black-bearded Captain Lenoir, who quickly rights his foundering yacht and tows it into Tregonnec harbour for repairs. But the attitude everywhere, including from the Captain and his surly crew, is undisguised hostile suspicion. Who is the stranger? What does he want? Why is he in the area? Why can he not handle his boat properly? Tregonnec does not welcome Outsiders… He can—very grudgingly—stay on in the village inn’s sole spare room for the day or two it will take to fix his yacht, then he must be on his way….
Kane makes the best of this reception and attempts to play the role of meekly inexperienced English academic, though he senses the shrewd Lenoir is not particularly convinced. But Lenoir, for all his abrasive aggression, is the only person who seems to show him any genuine friendship, or exhibit any genuine independence. After a night’s heavy drinking, the Captain suddenly confronts him in private: who are you really? Don’t give me any more of that bumbling English archaeologist crap, I saw through that straight away. And I can tell you know how to handle a boat too. What are you really doing here? Kane decides to take a chance and be completely honest. Look Lenoir, what do you know about a Welsh girl who disappeared here in this village a week ago, on the evening of April 30th? Lenoir is uneasy: I don’t know anything, I was out fishing. I make a point of being out at sea on…certain nights.
Ah! So you at least know there’s something to know? —Well, perhaps. But I’m hardly likely to tell a stranger am I? I mind my own business and nobody bothers me… What, even if evil is happening right under your own nose? You’re a coward. Lenoir… The Captain bristles: Yves Lenoir is afraid of no-one! No-one. But I don’t go picking pointless fights either. You don’t know what you’re getting mixed up in. If you take my advice, you’ll get that silly little yacht of yours fixed up and be away from here while you can still leave. Whoever this girl is, you’ll never find her, and even if you do you might wish you hadn’t… Kane is disappointed: So you won’t help me then? Lenoir pauses, troubled. I don’t know. Perhaps. I need time to think. Look, I’m away fishing for the next couple of days, we can talk again when I get back. If you’re still here that is… Impulsively he grabs Kane’s arm and points out to sea: You see that small island in the bay? Île-Des-Morts—the Isle of the Dead. Maybe part of the answer you seek is out there. But be careful. The currents are dangerous and so are… other things. Don’t say I didn’t warn you… Abruptly he turns away and stomps off.
Next day Kane takes charge of his repaired yacht. Everything is fine apart from the radio, the batteries of which are mysteriously completely drained. If Dyball and Marks don’t hear from him soon they’ll come looking for him, and he now has no way of contacting them or indeed anyone else. Any chance of gaining Lenoir’s confidence will vanish if they suddenly turn up. He can’t waste any more time, and decides to sail for Île-Des-Morts immediately.
Halfway across he hears a noise down in the cabin and finds it occupied by one of the village girls, who protests she accidentally fell asleep while clearing up. A spy? But a very beautiful one… Kane lets her take the helm, and she steers the yacht expertly, singing softly to herself as the boat flies along in the sun. A haunting melody… Kane finds himself lulled into a dreamlike state. They land on the island and explore, but he feels disconnected and cannot summon much interest… prehistoric dolmens, an underground tomb, ancient sacrificial altar, slimy human skulls, some quite recent… so what? Nothing to see here. They return to the tiny beach, and the girl announces she is going for a swim, stripping off in front of him, coolly flaunting her exquisite body. Coming? Kane eagerly removes his clothes and wades in after her.
She splashes around him, moving in for a swift tantalising kiss before vanishing beneath the surface, beckoning him to follow. Puzzled he takes a deep breath and dives behind her, deeper, deeper… the water is turning indigo, and the pressure hammering in his ears… deeper… she takes his hand and points—a drowned city! They are practically standing on a shadowy church spire, but his lungs are bursting and he must have air… her grip on his wrist is like iron, and she is laughing, wrapping her legs around his… he weakly tries to struggle free, but she is kissing him intoxicatingly, pulling him deeper… his vision is blurring… her head draws back and her lips part, revealing razor-sharp fangs… summoning his last ounce of strength he gets his hands around her throat and begins to squeeze… tighter, tighter…. his thumbs crushing her windpipe…. her grip slackens and he strikes up for the surface, gasping for air, his lungs on fire.
He bursts into sudden sunlight, panting wildly, but sees a dark shape coming up fast underneath him, and a triangular fin breaks the surface yards away… Shark! He barely has the strength to swim, but splashes weakly towards the distant shore. Too far, he’ll never make it… the fin is racing through the water, heading straight for him, huge jaws opening… suddenly a school of dolphins appear from nowhere and form a protective cordon, keeping the prowling shark at bay… he staggers onto the beach and collapses. What just happened? Was any of it real? His clothes are where he left them, but the girl’s have vanished…!
Back at Tregonnec harbour he is greeted by an embullient, sleekly stocky well-dressed stranger. My dear Mr Kane we were worried about you! I am Maître Hubert de Caradec, humble landlord of this little village. Will you perhaps take supper with me tonight at the Chateau? My coach is waiting…
From the top of the steeply-sloping main street it is only a short ride along a ridge to the imposing medieval Chateau, complete with drawbridge, moat, and various pinnacled turrets. De Caradec is an engaging host, cheerfully discussing Tregonnec’s history and traditions, admitting how much he values the village’s natural isolation, its serenely unchanging way of life. They eat supper with his silent wife, her shadowy face obscured behind an old-fashioned gable-hood: You must forgive Madame’s lack of conversation, she has caught a chill and is suffering from a Sore Throat at the moment… Kane nods understandingly.
They tour the chateau. A series of ancient faded portraits along a staircase all look strikingly like his host—Yes, the family resemblance is remarkable, isn’t it? The De Caradecs are a very old line… They pass a door from behind which odd chattering sounds are emanating. Hubert hesitates momentarily, then shrugs and pushes it open: My laboratory… A dozen hollow-eyed chimps are lined up around the walls in gleaming cages. —I’m interested in the processes of aging, the way certain synthetic chemical compounds can arrest physical decline… Just a hobby, you know….
They pass another curtained archway, with a distinctly ape-like guard slouched against it. Kane is intrigued, but De Caradec casually takes his arm: My private quarters—I’d rather you didn’t see them just at the moment, they’re in such a shocking mess… Kane feels he’s seen more than enough as it is, and thanks his host for a fascinating evening. Ah, the pleasure is all mine, beams De Caradec, you will come again soon? It is such a treat to have some intelligent conversation, the villagers are all oafs really… My carriage is at your disposal to take you back down to the village. Kane politely declines, saying he will enjoy the evening walk. As you wish, shrugs his host, keep to the paths…
Kane does not enjoy the walk. He is barely out of sight of the chateau when he is attacked by several huge wolves who emerge from the woods to chase him along the ridge. Desperately fighting them off with a heavy stick, he manages to maim one and force another over the cliffs, before staggering down into the village torn, bloody and exhausted. He is met outside the inn by a surly crowd of villagers. Have you been fighting? Didn’t we tell you to leave? You are bringing us nothing but trouble and bad luck… Rubbish, snarls Kane, you bring trouble on yourselves with your own pathetic cowardice. Where is Captain Lenoir? He knows what’s really going on here and has offered to help me… Well, you’re out of luck there then, sneers the leader, Lenoir won’t be helping anyone again, he’s dead. Kane is stunned—how did it happen? His boat was capsized in a freak storm, and all three crew were lost—Henri here saw the whole thing. And if Lenoir really did offer you help, that’s why he died. He was a good man, and now he’s dead because of you. But your meddling ends here. It’s time you suffered an accident yourself—a permanent accident….
Kane is suddenly facing an enraged lynch-mob. He knocks the nearest man down, kicks another out of the way and races back up the hill, the villagers in furious pursuit. The only place to go is the chateau, and when the mob see he is heading for it, they fall back. He hammers desperately on the door which is opened by an astonished De Caradec in his dressing-gown. My dear Steven, back so soon? What on earth has happened to you? Have you been attacked? But of course you must stay the night. I’ll have a room prepared. We can sort this ridiculous situation with the villagers out in the morning…
Kane has no intention of waiting until the morning. As soon as the chateau seems quiet, he sneaks silently out of his room and pads towards the forbidden curtained archway. The guard is still there, but is swiftly pounced on and knocked unconscious. A door at the end of the corridor is ajar, and sitting demurely inside is a young woman he instantly recognises from Nick’s photographs. Margot! Quick, we’ve got to get out of here! Nick sent me to fetch you, but there isn’t much time… Get out of my room this instant! shrills Margot, I am the chosen bride of the Master, and if you don’t leave immediately, I shall send for him to punish you for this gross impertinence! She reaches for a bell-pull, and Kane has no option but to swiftly knock her out and heave her over his shoulder. Grabbing a wicked-looking cutlass from the wall as he passes, he races down the stairs and out towards the stables, as a distant alarm-bell begins clanging….
Meanwhile, Lionel Marks and Father Dyball have both arrived in Finistere, Marks rounding up reinforcements in Quimper, and Dyball going to seek help from the parish priest of St Meriadec, the next village down the coast from Tregonnec. But Father Duclos is currently busy—a local fishing boat has been wrecked in a freak storm, and the three bodies recovered brought to him for burial. But one of them is incredibly still alive—a huge bear of a man with a thick black beard… As Lenoir revives on Duclos’s couch and mumbles his identity, Dyball is immediately alert—you’re from Tregonnec? Did you ever meet my friend Steven Kane? Yes, growls Lenoir, and he is undoubtedly now in terrible danger. My boat was wrecked because I dared to offer him help, but fate has given me a second chance. If he is still alive, there is only one place he can be—in the Chateau, God help him. I can take you there if you can get me onto a boat, but hurry… Pausing only to radio Marks, and fix a rendezvous by the inland cliffs, the three men head out towards the harbour…
Kane dumps Margot in the back of the coach, grabs a whip and leaps up onto the box, lashing the horses towards the gates which are already starting to close and the drawbridge beyond to be drawn up… He keeps going and the horses crash through the gap, leaping across the drop from the end of the drawbridge with a jarring thud, though the coach somehow stays upright… Kane keeps whipping the horses, though they scarcely need any encouragement, and risks a quick glance back over his shoulder, his jaw sagging in horror—Wolves! Scores of huge grey wolves are pouring out of the chateau, and racing howling after the coach, gaining all the time… Kane drops the whip, and—reins in one hand—reaches down and grabs the cutlass instead, slashing bloodily away at the wolves throwing themselves in a frenzy at the terrified horses. Fighting to keep the coach under control, he steers desperately for the gap in the cliffs that he knows Nick and Margot originally squeezed through… It’s been blocked with huge boulders! Dead End!
He turns the coach and brings it juddering to a halt, hauls Margot out of the back, and, jumping swiftly to the side, slaps the horses back towards the racing wolves, briefly scattering the pack, but it’s only a temporary reprieve… Backed helplessly against the cliff wall, clutching Margot and brandishing the cutlass, he watches the wolves fan out and silently close in. It’s only a matter of time now, he can’t possibly keep them all off…
Suddenly a rope flops over his shoulder and several shots ring out—it’s Lionel with his reinforcements at the top of the cliffs! Men are abseiling down with pistols drawn… At the same moment, Dyball and Lenoir—LENOIR !—appear with a band of villagers at the far end of the track, armed with clubs and staves. Trapped between the two groups of men, the wolves fight viciously back, but now the numbers are more even, and the creatures are losing ground… A great grey wolf, larger than all the others, launches itself at Kane, but he spears it brutally with his cutlass. It falls dying at his feet and seems to shift and blur… De Caradec looks up at him with bitter eyes. Really Stephen, is this any way to repay my hospitality? I will never forgive you for this, never. I will return one day in another guise, and you will pay for this, oh yes, you will be sorry… but his head lolls to one side and his jaw falls open… the body is crumbling, dissolving into dust. The remaining wolves howl in defeat, turn tail and vanish into the forest. Behind them, the first rays of the morning sun peep over the top of the cliffs… a new day is dawning in Tregonnec.
Commentary
Just in case this synopsis doesn’t make it obvious, Vampires of Finistere is a really good book. It and The Killing Bone are easily the best entries in the Guardians series, vastly superior to the other four efforts (which are far more routine/generic). But Vampires of Finistere and Killing Boneare stylistically very different: aside from its nutty Astral Plain climax, Killing Bone is essentially realist in tone—it (chiefly) takes place in a recognisably everyday London, and its protagonists are (chiefly) convincingly down-to-earth types who actually sound like real people. (Baker smartly slips in several contemporary references to reinforce this casual feel—during the rowdy Earls Court party, for example, Dyball fleetingly overhears an angry debate about Decimalisation, and the effect it may have on the Aussie exchange-rates.)
Vampires of Finistere in contrast is a sumptuous, beautifully realised Gothic fantasy. In less skilful hands it would inevitably emerge as a tired by-the-numbers pastiche, but the thing is Rex Dolphin can really write. His eye for landscape is vivid, his confident handling of technical detail (like the practicalities of sailing) is assured, and his construction of the big action set-pieces really drives along. His characterisation is also rather better than average—most of the protagonists in Finistere are familiar (often outrageously familiar) stock-types, but the simple, unaffected energy of their presentation here brings them to fresh life.
Perhaps most important of all, Dolphin knows how to keep a narrative moving, never letting the pace flag, steadily building up the intrigue. The preceding synopsis, although long, is still quite ruthlessly cut, but crucially (unlike most of the preceding summaries) this is NOT because the original story is flabbily-overstretched, but rather just because its re-telling had to be kept to a sensible length. (It actually eliminates a key supporting character, and dramatic revelatory escape-and-recapture double-climax, just to keep things manageable.)
Significant chunks of Vampires of Finistere are incredibly cinematic, and already read like a particularly fresh and dynamic Hammer Horror. Of all the Guardians novels, this is this one that most clearly screams Potential Big-Screen Adaptation. The only problem from a screenwriter’s point of view is that this is effectively a solo outing for Steven Kane, and with the other Guardians being peripheral at best, their supporting roles would need to be developed slightly. Anne Ashby crops up in flashback from time to time (her mental link with Kane allows him to resist a deadly vampiric seduction at one point) and this just needs to be better emphasised to underline her presence.
By now—with the films appearing annually—we are up to 1977, and perhaps audiences are finally tiring of the series, which is starting to look a touch dated. Vampires of Finistere would require a bigger-than-average budget to do it justice, and—to end on a bittersweet note—maybe this is the point at which our mirror-world Hammer finally overreach themselves. Shooting runs badly over-schedule on its Brittany locations, and a frazzled Hessler (already feeling the serieshas becomes an albatross around his neck) falls out of favour with management. The film is released to a big publicity-push, but despite it being the most visually ambitious and atmospheric instalment to date, fickle audiences give it the thumbs-down, and it flops badly. Carreras cancels all proposed follow-ups, and instead announces plans for Doctor Who Meets Scratchman, the pet project of TV star, co-writer and executive producer Tom Baker (so memorably cast as Finistere’s villainous De Caradec, and here reteamed with Guardians regular David Warner, this time in a decidedly less heroic mould). Vampires of Finistere vanishes for years, but goes on to slowly achieve cult status as the most magical and underrated Hammer Horror of them all…
Meanwhile, back in the real world, the Guardians had one final hurrah. In 1974 Sphere Books launched their ambitious ‘Dennis Wheatley Library of the Occult’ paperback-series, reprinting a mammoth 45 individual fantasy-fiction classics over the next three years, each volume featuring a brief introduction by Wheatley himself (generally just summarising its plot). Most of the great international genre-authors of the previous century were represented. And Peter Saxon.
By late 1975 Sphere were either running a bit low on choice, or Baker had worked his re-sale magic yet again. Because #32 in the Dennis Wheatley Library of the Occult is that eternal literary masterpiece Dark Ways To Death. Dennis is typically blunt in his introduction:
“I have rarely read a novel the first chapter of which was more colourless, impersonal and lacking in inducement to continue. But don’t be put off by that. From chapter two Mr Peter Saxon’s story grips the reader and carries him into a positive orgy of excitement and violence. Moreover, although the book was first published in 1968, the author’s excellent imagination has enabled him to create situations highly appropriate to the nineteen seventies… [Here Wheatley gloatingly outlines a lurid synopsis, all the way up to the final tube-tunnel Voodoo Ceremony.] “…Such is the scene depicted in the latter chapters of this book. Although this is fiction it is an appalling thought that very similar happenings do now secretly take place in British cities”.
Quite so. If you glance upwards, you can clearly make out the disembodied heads of Bubastis and Dambalawedo nodding in concerned agreement.
Sim Branaghan June 2016
RIP: Michael Carreras (1927-94), Christopher Wicking (1943-2008), Gordon Hessler (1925-2014), Patrick Magee (1922-82), Ralph Bates (1940-91), and Lionel Jeffries (1926-2010)
Salut: David Warner (b.1941) and Caroline Munro (b.1949)—still alive and kicking, true icons of British cinema.