Two tiring days, with little to show for it – except a fair knowledge of Mildendo Central island and the various minor villages and industrial enterprises. At least, we are refining our techniques – the first time Helen asked a local if he knew where to find a young Euro girl, he winked and assured her that his sister was very pretty, and had a Euro costume that fitted her like a glove. Not quite what we had in mind! I think Helen’s ears are still blushing.

            Of course, there is the other problem of what to tell folk when they ask why we want to find Phoebe – the Detectives can offer a share of the reward for finding her, but we are not here for the money – nor do we have enough spare to bribe our way across the island (probably to be passed to a string of fore-warned friends and relations claiming to know where our quarry went next, and bleeding us cash at every step.)

            Still, we have promised to look, and we are looking. Today we struck out across to the far side of the island, where there is an extensive copra processing plant with its own docks. Judging from her file, Phoebe has a good education already and probably little spare cash – it was my idea that she might look for a job as secretary or similar in one of the industrial concerns. I can well imagine any well-presented Euro girl turning up and offering to work for a discount wage might have very few searching questions asked. She is not at Wanoro Peal Coconut Enterprises, wherever else she may be.

            Quite a sight, after nearly a year in the South Seas, to finally walk under avenues lined with ripe coconuts. A definite postcard view, although when a sudden squall hit the plantation it became rather hazardous. One can well imagine that of the various local obituaries one reads of folk found dead with a thirty-pound bunch of coconuts next to them, quite a few might be actual accidents. Just this once I found myself wishing I had brought my very sturdy solar topee with me – though of course it hardly fits with my Native ensemble.

19th August, 1935

Dear Diary – no wonder this Phoebe is proving hard for even professionals to track down. We have spent another two days getting around the outlying Mildendo islands, but getting nowhere as far as the chase is concerned – and of course the scent is growing colder all the time. Whatever any of the private investigators have found out, they are naturally keeping to themselves – and probably (Helen says) paying their sources not to tell any of their competitors. Which leaves us with little option but to explore in ever-increasing circles from her last known port of call, and just hope to spot a face or accent in the crowd. Not knowing her personally, our chances are a little disheartening (Helen says she might be in oiled fur like myself by now and disguising her accent as well. Ever the optimist, dear Helen is – I don’t think.)

            We certainly get to meet a lot of other people, though – this lunchtime we were talking with a Spontoonie who was passing through here on business – he works for a firm doing Imports and Exports across the whole area, and promised to keep a look out on his travels. When we told him our names he seemed quite surprised – he evidently recognised them. Helen seemed a bit suspicious, until he explained he is a great supporter of the Spontoonie dance competitions, and had read of our unexpected successes in the newspapers and club magazines. At last, someone else is on our side.

21st August, 1935

News at last! Just when we were getting ready to give Mildendo up as a bad job and move on, we received a postcard at our hotel – from a Mrs Virginia Crichley, a missionary. She writes that she met the commercial traveller we had spoken with, and she has seen a young lady answering that description – and that she will call on us tomorrow. A great day – all it took was one postcard to decidedly cheered us up.

            In the circumstances, we felt quite ready to take the afternoon and evening off – after five days of hard work, with whatever our mission brings us tomorrow. Happily the sun had broken through the steaming hot mists, leaving Mildendo looking as cheerful as we have seen it. Toonabo Town is rather basic, but has most of the supplies for a pleasant picnic, with fruits and grilled fish in the market and an imported bottle of Nootnops Blue apiece for the beach afterwards.

            Interestingly, from what we can hear playing in the shops there are Euro radio stations within range of here, possibly Missionary built transmitters. At any rate, I doubt Radio LONO would be playing that latest and most irritating George Formless track – the one from his comic film of rioting Chinatown Anarchists, “Mr. Wu’s a window-breaker now.” I wonder if one can become allergic to ukuleles?

            A fine afternoon, though looking out at the sea Southwards, I felt quite longingly of my own distant jungle hut for two. Helen is as staunch a friend as I could wish for on this trip – but there are things I discover I have become accustomed to, that a year ago I would have never expected to miss. My Tailfast locket is on full display as ever, which deflects any unwanted attentions by the locals as well as Helen’s gun belt does for her – but reminds me of what I might be doing back on Spontoon. At least, we have a lead now, and might not have to waste the next month searching fruitlessly across the whole Pacific!

22nd August, 1935

One gets the impression that things get stranger and stranger, the further we travel from Spontoon. We stayed in our hotel after breakfast, awaiting this Mrs. Critchley – who sent up her card at ten, and I received her in our rooms (which are drab, but better at least than the street outside.) A very striking lady of canine stock, white curled head-fur and a tail that was quite hidden by her very demure dress. It was hard to spot her accent – I detected French in it, and something of broad Cockney English – she explained that she had travelled the world for many years on behalf of her Mission, which no doubt explains it.

            She began by explaining that her Mission work took her into the less travelled parts of the world – and the less welcome she was there, the more her services were needed (Helen seemed to have some trouble working this one out.) Her most recent trip had been to a place I would never have thought of searching – to Krupmark Island, which is as notorious as old Tortuga was in the swashbuckling days when my family hunted Pirates through the Caribbean. * I doubt any Detectives have made much of a search of there, theirs being a definitely unpopular trade on Krupmark – and there is only so much risk that the reward money will pay for.

            However – Mrs. Critchley has been there, and says she met an English girl answering Phoebe’s description, in what she describes as an Unfortunate area. Although she could not speak with her long, she got the impression Phoebe was in real need of rescue.

            Helen did ask why she has not approached the Authorities with this, or announced it to the newspapers – I can imagine folk putting together a substantial rescue mission even without the reward, as they do for lost explorers and such. Mrs. Critchley hesitated a little, and then confided that the newspapers would be all too eager to broadcast her unfortunate position, and her reputation would be ruined for life through no fault of her own – any rescue would have to be discreet, and preferably soon. Besides which, Krupmark is at the very centre of the most disputed piece of the Nimitz Sea, and there is no single Authority with any clear right to act there.

            Well! This is definitely the sort of thing Songmark girls such as ourselves  should be doing with our Summer Holidays – it seems quite tailor-made for the pair of us. Some reinforcements might be useful, but on reflection it is as well Molly and Maria are not here. I fear that Molly’s idea of a rescue mission would start with setting the town on fire and seeing who comes out of it – and Maria is possibly more subtle than a bull in a china shop, but one has to look hard to be sure.

            The trouble is, that getting to Krupmark is rather difficult. There are no scheduled commercial routes, and few honest traders go near the place. Which means we either find a dishonest one, or arrange transport ourselves – over a hundred and fifty miles each way, with an unknown reception at the far end. Quite a tall order – although in a Tiger Moth it is barely two hours flight, there is no Krupmark airfield marked on the map. A regular poser, this – we will have to get our thinking caps on.

            Mrs. Critchley did mention she would be returning there in a week, after she had discussed things with her superiors – but a lot can happen in a week. Fortunately she is staying here on Mildendo till tomorrow, so we shall have her advice until then.

            A definite brainteaser, for the pair of us. Helen seemed somewhat doubtful of our guest, claiming all the Missionaries she has ever met always smell of harsh carbolic soap, not perfumed brands. Quite possibly so, given a free choice – but this is Mildendo, and one takes whatever supplies are on the shelf. Honestly – if one cannot trust the clergy, whom can one trust ? Her dress was very austere and of a very fine pattern, watered silk unless I miss my guess. As I told Helen, respectable dressmakers cater for respectable people.

* Editor’s note: Elsewhere in the diary Amelia drew up her family tree, several centuries’ worth. If she knew that her prominent ancestor Henry Phipps founded the family estates after a career sailing as Blackbeard’s right-paw henchman, she pointedly ignores the fact. No doubt he ordered his skull and crossbones flags from an impeccable tailor, which excuses most things.

25th August, 1935

Krupmark Island at last! It has been hectic, with no time to write – indeed, we have been decidedly swept along by our luck this trip. Right now Helen and I are sitting in a woven palm “basha” concealed on a ridge half a mile from Fort Bob, the main settlement on the island. We were quite wrong about the lack of airfield – in the valley below there is a rough but serviceable dirt strip that can take twin-engined cargo aircraft, although judging by several wrecks at the end of the runway – only excellent pilots need apply.

            We had been quite at a loss as to how to get here – Helen was considering returning to Spontoon and contacting Mr. Sapohatan to ask if he could help us. Not a bad idea – but it would take days even if they agreed, and we have no real proof it really is Phoebe anyway. I doubt our standing with Post Box Nine would be much improved after a fighting expeditionary force discovered we had sent them on a wild goose chase. The whole point of us having this mission is that we have no official standing with the Authorities – any trouble we stir up, will not float in a Spontoonie direction.

            Of course, that is nice for Mr. Sapohatan, but we are severely on our own here with nobody to call for help or even knowing where we are. Some backup would be useful, but our ticket to get here was strictly for two. We have Mrs. Critchley to thank for that – when we met her the second time she told us she had met a rogue trader who has dealings all throughout these islands – and who might be persuaded to take us over, for a suitable fee.

            I don’t know if there are actual Pirates on this island, but what “Captain” Panapa charged us for a sweltering voyage in the hold of his sloop was daylight robbery. It took fully half the gold in Helen’s belt to persuade him – and we were an hour out on the high seas when he cheerfully announced that he had been heading this direction anyway! Had Helen not been exceedingly unwell by that time, the Captain might have more claw-marks through his ears than he already has.

            Decidedly not a pleasure trip, crammed in the hold for a day and night, both of us wishing Helen was a better sailor. Just before docking we heard the sound of powerful engines, and a voice hailed our vessel abruptly – evidently the local version of “Customs” is only concerned that nobody is sending a gunboat, for nobody seemed at all concerned with the cargo. One must be grateful for small mercies.

            Despite paying such an exorbitant price, our “ticket” did not even cover us all the way to shore. Captain Panapa stuck his head into the hold and bellowed that we had best get ready to swim – as the ship would be searched as soon as it docked, and we were not on the cargo manifest. I suppose it is good tactics for concealment, but the boat did not even slow down as we were “invited” to jump carrying our packs tied to old cork life-belts, three hundred yards from shore. At least, we have done this sort of thing in class – and our training fell into place as we made shore, groomed out our fur and vanished off the paths to check nobody was following us. We were generally not feeling too grateful, except that we had those days playing hide and seek with that Guides’ School – though I hardly expected to put it to such a test so soon.

            It was slow, hard going through the scrub and ten-yard jungle, trying to keep the main trail in sight until we found Fort Bob. Our camp here is quite as secure as we can make it, hidden from the air by the canopy and from below by a dense bamboo thicket. There is a spring nearby and we have food for six days plus whatever we can find in the jungle – so far so good. Even time to rest and write up our adventures! Tomorrow we take a look at Fort Bob.

26th August, 1935

Dear Diary – I don’t think I’ll be able to watch a Robin Hood film again. It seems such a romantic notion, a town of outlaws in the forest, banded together in rough camaraderie against the outside world. Well, it might have been then, but the world has moved on and not always for the better.

            We were up at dawn, slipping through the forest rather faster than we might if we expected anyone was awake to hear us. Our first job was to get an idea of the town’s layout (we were not expecting tourist maps here) and then to find somewhere we could observe for a few hours. In half an hour we managed that – it is a big place, hardly a shantytown, with easily four hundred houses and a fair collection of prefabricated storage down by the airstrip. The streets were almost deserted, the only sign of organisation being what looked like a “clean-up squad” of rather worn-looking rodents with shovels and hooks. It was an awful shock to see what they were loading onto a cart - I sincerely hope the figures being flung onto it were just dead drunk.

            Very chastened, we found a fine lying-up position on a small knoll just outside town, with more bamboo concealing us, and a view down onto the main street. We observed all morning with our field glasses, making careful notes and whispering quietly, our voices quite drowned by the rustling bamboo around us. Dry bamboo leaves and stalks scattered on the paths around were set to give us warning of unexpected visitors: the stuff crackles and snaps like pistol shots when trodden upon - another useful lesson the Spontoon Guide’s School taught us.

            Whoever said crime does not pay, was evidently taking a long view of the subject, for Fort Bob looks exceedingly prosperous! An awful lot of business was being done there – a regular “thieves’ Bazaar” of weapons and all sorts of equipment was at one end of the street, and we caught the flash of gold and jewels being traded at the other. From a distance it looked quite shockingly like a happy, thriving market town, the streets filled with eager buyers and the scent of cooking drifting up quite tantalisingly to us three hundred yards downwind. Well before lunchtime there were taverns doing a roaring trade – and several fights spilling out into the street. Nobody seemed to be at all concerned, and simply moved out of the way as they continued to bargain. There were even several shots, though it was hard to say exactly where from – but still the locals seemed completely indifferent to everything.

            Still – it looks as if our silk aircrew uniforms are the best costume for blending in down there. At least there will be no worry about where to conceal weapons, as most folk seem to be armed to the teeth like a stage Mexican bandit. Helen whispered that we should have made our wills beforehand – not an encouraging thought.

            We waited till dark, then slipped back to our packs to eat and change costume, before returning to the quite well lit town. From Molly’s back issues of “True Crime Illustrated” we have some ideas of how to blend in – if this was a factory we would wear overalls and carry a broom, and for a research lab we would try to acquire a white coat, a clipboard and a worried expression. Something bolder should suit us here – so we joined the track near the airport and marched up into town along the main road, loudly discussing which of the saloons we had spotted to visit first.

            Hopefully nobody expects spies and agents to stop off at corner food stalls and snack their way down the open street – at any rate, we were quite undisturbed as we wandered through town noting the various buildings and committing them to memory. Most of the commercial premises were heavily shuttered, but there was one corner of the Thieves’ Bazaar still open to catch the passing trade. I was expecting to be gouged unmercifully for any equipment there – but one of Helen’s golden guineas got me a used but sound Webley-Fosbury .57 automatic loading revolver, including a holster and a box of two dozen “hunting” rounds. Quite a bargain, and as Father has one, I am perfectly familiar with the model. Helen looked at the size of the cartridges and whispered that I would do myself severe injury firing it – but the Webley-Fosbury has a patented anti-recoil action so smooth that it is banned as unfair by most target pistol clubs.

            Anyway – we seemed to attract little attention on the streets, and our position is rather stronger than before, as now we are not only familiar with the streets but also well fed and better equipped. Even so, we headed back to base before exhausting our luck for the evening!

27th August, 1935

Quite a frustrating day, overall – we spent the whole afternoon in Fort Bob, and though we have learned an awful lot there is no sign of Phoebe. Fortunately this is a place where nobody is curious about where a stranger comes from and why – we are dressed more or less as pilots, and seem to be accepted as such. Indeed, we have had to turn down two offers of private employment already – Helen told an elderly jackal and a surprisingly well dressed rat that “the Boss wouldn’t like it”. As she pointed out to me later – no matter where in the world you are, in this sort of place there is always a Boss.

            Although we have avoided the rougher-looking taverns and saloons, we must have wandered through most of the public areas by now, as well as the airfield. Having slipped round through the jungle to one of the wrecks bulldozed off the runway, our pocket toolkit sufficed to prize loose and scavenge some “cover” – nobody looks twice at two aeronautical types walking around an airfield carrying oil cans and unidentifiable electrical parts. As Molly’s handy guide pointed out, if it is obvious what you are doing, nobody will start asking themselves dangerous questions.

28th August, 1935

A surprising meeting – we were listening out for any familiar accents in the street, when I heard a familiar voice – the brave missionary herself, Mrs. Critchley! She was wearing a different black dress, and was not preaching in the streets as one might expect – though on reflection, around here that would make for an exceedingly brief career.

            We managed to discreetly attract her attention, and she confirmed that she had indeed been looking for us. Her usual “preaching” style here, she tells us, is to let anyone with an interest seek her out – she says she is a familiar sight in these streets, and everyone knows what she has to offer. Certainly, I noticed that even the roughest-looking types seemed to treat her quite respectfully.

            As to our mission, she recommends one other place we might try – on the far end of the island, a resort that is known only as The Beach. It seems that Fort Bob is the main trading post, and The Beach the entertainment complex – like London and Eastbourne at home. Indeed, Mrs. Critchley recommends us to search that side of the island, whispering that there are many folk in great need of saving there.

            A grateful farewell, and we vanished off to “strike camp” and explore the rest of the island. Five miles through pathless jungle took most of the rest of the day, there being no Native trails or tourist routes to follow if one wishes to avoid the main track.

            (Evening) We have found what is a very temporary “hide” at best, a rather small clump of palms perhaps a quarter of a mile from shore and what is evidently our destination. There is a settlement behind the dunes, perhaps two dozen houses of the portable wooden frame type – some look rather like one sees in Cowboy films, with verandas and steeply pitched wooden roofs. As far as we can see, there is no trading and no industry – everyone arrives from Fort Bob on dilapidated lorries and heads straight in without stopping to sunbathe. Most curious. They have some amenities though: even from this distance we can see lights, and hear the hum of a generator coming down the wind to us. Tomorrow, we hit the Beach!

29th August, 1935

Dear Diary – one can have too much Adventure after awhile. I had started out at first light, when Helen stepped in front of me and asked if I had realised just what The Beach exactly was. I had thought it was a quiet retreat from the haggling and street brawls of Fort Bob – which it may be, but Helen expounded the … Details, in some detail. She pointed out that what has to be discreet even in the back streets of a Texan oil boom town, can be right out in the open on Krupmark Island.

            Oh my.

            One has to agree with Helen’s logic here – it rather fits with what Mrs. Critchley explained about the reasons for not arriving with an official team to rescue Phoebe (if she IS here, which I greatly doubt, Phoebe being a well brought-up young lady of respectable family.) This gives us rather a problem though – at Fort Bob there were all sorts of folk wandering around for all sorts of reasons, which is not the case here. And from what we have seen, visitors to Krupmark Island are not the sort to innocently sunbathe and build sand castles while enjoying the scenery.

            Still, we are here to look around, and it seems even quieter first thing in the morning than Fort Bob. Back into our Pilot’s uniforms, and inland till we hit the main road – we should attract less attention that way than if we were spotted sneaking in through the dunes where nobody goes. Arriving behind the sea-facing houses, it looks definitely as if some of these have been dismantled and rebuilt here – the paint schemes do not match, and no two houses really seem to fit each other. They are two storeys tall, generally with attics. I had expected barbed wire fences, but as Helen points out – anyone trapped here unwillingly needs no fences, the only way off the island being the easily guarded airstrip at Fort Bob and the loading jetties nearby.

            There is a main “street” of ten large houses facing the sea, and perhaps a dozen single-storey structures tucked away behind, rather like the bunk houses one sees on the old plantations on Spontoon. Nobody was around at seven in the morning, so we could stroll confidently around getting an idea of the possible exits. It all looks rather unpromising – there is the gravel road to Fort Bob, the ocean (with breakers roaring over what looks like an unbroken reef) and on each side the open beach, with dunes of soft sand quite impossible to run through. It would be depressingly easy to seal off this piece of shore – there are radio aerials on two of the larger buildings, and reinforcements from town could be here in ten minutes.

            We had a lucky escape, and a piece of luck – for awhile I had noticed an appetising scent of cooking bacon, something I had really missed in these islands. Heading back to our base camp, we were passing the last bunk house when the doors flew open just in front of us, and a plump cougar lady bustled out with a tray laden with plates. She evidently mistook us (or at least Helen) for customers, as she grinned and pointed out breakfast was included, but most folk rarely get up so early. When Helen hesitated, the cook added that the truck would be arriving at ten.

            My Father always told me to take advantage of an unexpected meal, when one never knows where the next one will be coming from – and we were hardly going to excite suspicion by running away. Of all the places I have eaten breakfast, this must be the strangest – tinned bacon and powdered eggs, eaten in the courtyard behind not merely a house but a village of Ill Repute, miles from any friendly face but Helen’s. We did full justice to the meal – and our cook nodded towards one of the large houses, the one with the lavender-coloured door and “reminded” Helen that closing time was at ten. Helen gave her best roguish grin, but I could see she was sweating at the thought.

            We vanished up the track as soon as the cook was out of sight, and had a quick counsel of war behind the nearest dune. An awful problem, this one – and we felt we had pushed our luck quite far enough for the day, walking around in plain sight.

            An hour later, I had thought of a plan: we had passed a large tree trunk washed up on the beach near our hideout that looked just manageable between us. By ten o’clock we had rolled it into the water, brushed out our tracks from the sand and paddled it along the calm waters of the lagoon, to act as a floating observation post while we trod water behind it. The water was quite warm, mercifully – as we were there for two hours, paddling just enough to keep still in front of the houses fifty yards offshore.

            There is one thing that can be said in favour of The Beach, it is quite unprejudiced – when the lorries rolled up there were folk of all species getting on them, and from the house with the lavender door I saw why Helen had been pointed that direction. The dust cloud settled, and for a while things were quiet – until we got a most awful shock.

            I should have thought about it. There is a fine sand beach and warm, cleansing water here – and whatever plumbing is in those buildings must be basic at best. Furthermore, I doubt there is much one can do in way of recreation out here. Of course, the entire resident population goes for a swim every morning! The sight of the first half dozen bathers had us very cautiously paddling our log back along the shore – had we waited another five minutes we would have been surrounded by folk very curious to know what we were doing. It was a close call indeed, as the sight of a log suddenly making rapid progress across a calm lagoon would have been rather conspicuous. There were about half a dozen feline girls who might have been Phoebe, but we were far too busy putting as much distance as possible between us and them to be able to use our field-glasses.

            We made our escape, beached our log and retired to our lying-up position, rather baffled about our next move. The only way we are going to spot if any of them are Phoebe is to get close enough to ask – and we can neither do that covertly or socially, one might say. Unless we happen to strike lucky first time, we might quite give the game away, with probably rather awful consequences.

            To make matters worse, our lying-up position is none too secure, unlike the previous nights’ camp above Fort Bob. There is only one clump of trees within a mile and we are in it – the first place anyone would look. So we can hardly risk either going back to The Beach or staying here – which means we will have to beat a retreat towards Fort Bob, temporarily I hope. If Phoebe is here in need of rescue, I hardly like to be the one who got within a hundred yards and then abandoned her. Not the sort of thing a Songmark girl does, and especially not a Bourne-Phipps.

2nd September, 1935

Mission successful (sort of.)

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