The Case of the Criminal Queen

They called her the Queen of Crime, did the readers and writers of The Times of London, 1922, not because she competed in those pages for the attentions of such railway bookstore doyennes as have characterised our culture section of late, but because she'd walked into Farringdon's (a jeweller's) and almost walked out with a cache of diamonds worth the cost of a small island.

Dressed in widow's weeds, a black veil, and a pair of pointed heels, her dress was inclined to suggest, in such a place, a woman disposing of her late husband's love gifts, so as to more happily enter a long retirement from gay society. The Queen attracted a young salesgirl and on the pretence of showcasing her wares, lured her behind a curtain. At which point out came the pistol, only the poor girl's shrill shriek - before the devilish dame forced a leather-gloved hand over her victim's mouth - enough to alert the floor that something was amiss.

Alas, it was a good ten minutes - during which the most fabulous Farringdon's content was being poured into the Queen's clutch - before anyone disturbed the dance. "I thought that the silly chit had gone daft looking at rings she can't afford" the day manager was later quoted as having told police.

And who should have stopped the harlequin hussy but a man of our own esteemed ranks? Yes, it was Homer Featherstonhaugh (pronounced, he assured our journalist, Fan-shaw) himself, the man who brought home despatches from our boys on the Eastern Front, braving the guns of the jerries, who this morning braved the jewel-encrusted pocket pistol of Jeminiah Goodrem, the 28-year-old daughter of Jebediah and Janet Goodrem.

The Goodrems ran a "boarding house" in the late Victorian years, the Edwardians less kind to their particular clientele, despite allegedly including a few important Edwards. Is it any wonder that such tidings spelt a criminal career for the young Jeminiah, whose grandfather had been a noted parish priest before discovering liquor and bad company, both in a gentleman's club? And what are we to do now, with this delinquent of the demimonde?

Homer refused to be drawn on such points, insisting that although his hopefully long retirement from war correspondence has included certain acts of detection, provided as a public service, the real business of crime and punishment belongs to the professionals. But how did he come to collar Miss Goodrem, you ask?

"I was buying a gift for Hetty Wainthropp, a girlfriend of mine," he said on the steps of Farringdon's, before clarifying that he meant a bridge partner, not an amorous one. "I owe the woman a diamond necklace after losing a game to her, you see, having bet that she couldn't take all my money before the first rubber was up. (So to speak.) I was standing in the shop when I heard the girl, by which I mean the clerk, scream suddenly, before stopping as if her voice had been cut off.

"I tried to tell that silly a-- of a day manager to ring that special servant's bell they have, the one that means to alert a policeman. But he kept insisting that the girl had probably just caught her eyes on a fancy brooch or some such nonsense. In the end, I saw no choice, since the chap was blocking the bell, to risk embarrassment and charge through the curtain to the showcase booth myself. I ended up knocking the gun from her hand and the girl, by which I mean the criminal, to the floor, pinning her there with my, ahem, considerably larger bulk."

But our have-a-go-Homer was modest even in victory. "Damn foolish thing to do, really. I'm only glad that the gun didn't go off and kill the clerk." And indeed, it didn't! It went off and hit the day manager instead. "Grazed his leg, I suppose" Homer grudgingly admitted. "I've seen dead men who complained less, though."

We asked the journalist-cum-detective how he could tell that the girl's scream was one of genuine fear, as opposed to the folly so often ascribed to the female sex, and described by the manager as occasioned by a magpie's pleasure. "Oh, that was nothing," he said, his former modesty deserting him. "I can tell when a girl screams for pleasure." Blushing (the poor chap seemed thoroughly flustered by his own heroics!), he clarified again. "Partly it was the sudden cessation of noise, indicating a stranger's hand across the mouth. But mostly it was that, well, when a woman is suddenly delighted, she sounds rather like my friend Hetty Wainthropp, on realising that I owe her a necklace."