Barnabas Tew and The Case Of The Missing Scarab
Barnabas Tew and
The Case of
The Missing Scarab
Columbkill Noonan
Copyright © 2017 by Columbkill Noonan
Artwork: Adobe Stock © lynea
Design: soqoqo
Editors: Maureen Vincent-Northam
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Crooked Cat Books except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously.
First Black Line Edition, Crooked Cat Books. 2017
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Acknowledgements
I'd like to thank my incredibly talented editor Maureen Vincent-Northam, who made the editing process not only easy but also quite fun as well. I'd also like to thank Laurence and Stephanie Patterson, who took a chance on my crazy story and helped me make it something amazing. And special thanks to Nicky Leavy, who believed in Barnabas even before anyone else ever met him.
Columbkill Noonan
About the Author
Columbkill Noonan has an M.S. in Biology (she has, in turn, been a field biologist, an environmental compliance inspector, and a lecturer of Anatomy and Physiology).
When she's not teaching or writing, she can usually be found riding her rescue horse, Mittens, practicing yoga (on the ground, in an aerial silk, on a SUP board, and sometimes even on Mittens), or spending far too much time at the local organic, vegan market.
To keep up with Columbkill, visit her blog at www.Columbkill.weebly.com, find her on Facebook at www.facebook.com/ColumbkillNoonan, or follow her on Twitter @ColumbkillNoon1.
Barnabas Tew and
The Case of
The Missing Scarab
Chapter One
Barnabas Tew sat bolt upright in the chair at his desk, nervously fidgeting with the accoutrements thereon. He made as if to stand up, but then changed his mind and sat hastily back down. He repeated this process a few times, until at last he settled on a posture somewhere in between the extremes of being either entirely up or entirely down. He blinked rapidly as he pondered the dilemma that now confronted him: should he or should he not answer the doorbell?
A ringing doorbell was not a common occurrence at the slightly shabby flat on the not-quite fashionable northeastern edge of Marylebone that served not only as Barnabas’ home but also his office. Indeed, the doorbell of the squat little terrace on Carburton Street was rung so infrequently that the event was enough to cause no small amount of consternation and confusion on the part of its equally squat little occupant.
Barnabas Tew was a private detective, although by some accounts not an especially good one. Years ago, when he was still a young man studying at London University, a wonderful new book had been published. It was a collection of stories about the adventures of a clever and dashing detective, Sherlock Holmes, and his somewhat less clever and less dashing assistant, Dr. Watson. Barnabas was immediately enthralled.
He had loved everything about the stories: the astonishing feats of mental agility, the glamorous and daring acts of bravery in the interest of justice, and the loyal Dr. Watson whose less-than-stellar performances served as a perfect contrast to better display Holmes’ glittering intellect. Barnabas fancied that, since he understood the deductions made in the story (after they were explained, of course, but still!), perhaps he might one day be just like his newfound hero and have a loyal friend to assist him with all of his important and exciting capers.
And his capers would be terribly important, of that his young mind had been sure. He would be the most capable and clever detective in the entire country. Nay, the entire world! Scotland Yard would consult him whenever a case confounded the limited wits of their finest detectives, and members of the nobility would sneak to his door in the dead of night when they had problems that required the utmost delicacy and discretion. His offices would be in the finest part of Mayfield, perhaps in one of the grand old Georgian townhouses near Grosvenor Square (or overlooking Berkeley Square Gardens at the very least).
His assistant would be a perfect foil against which to showcase his amazing talents, of that he was also certain. His Watson would be only slightly less intelligent, less brave, and less handsome than himself, although even Barnabas had to admit that this might be a difficult feat since he was not terribly handsome. Indeed, he was quite short and very nearly as wide as he was tall, and so there was an overall effect of roundness to him. Nevertheless, the assistant would be his loyal sidekick, and Barnabas would always graciously thank him for his help, sincerely grateful for his invaluable services.
The dream of being a detective had stuck throughout his years at university, fueled by the release of subsequent adventures of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. And so it was that, after graduating, degree in hand and ambitious dreams dancing about in his head, Barnabas decided to get straight to it and open up shop for himself. Of course, he was not able to realize the dream of having a posh office in Mayfield, at least not right away, which he realized the moment the landlord of such a place informed him of the exorbitant monthly rate. He had a small portion from his late father, but it was not sufficient to get him started in quite so fancy an office.
Therefore, he had downsized his ambitions a bit, telling himself it was only temporary, just until his reputation had a chance to take hold throughout all of London (and indeed the entire nation, nay, the entire continent!). He rented this small flat in this small house in Marylebone. That was ten years ago, but somehow his dream of solving crimes had never quite become manifest. Not only was he not a smashing success as a detective, it seemed that he was utterly confounded by most of the cases that he took on and solved only a precious few.
He was beginning to suspect that perhaps he was not as clever as he had hoped. He even feared that he might be better suited as someone else’s pleasant-yet-perhaps-slightly-dim-witted assistant, whilst his own assistant, an eager fellow by the name of Wilfred Colby, might be better off as a chimney sweep or a government clerk, or really in any line of work that would at least make him a decent living. But still, Barnabas was loath to give up on himself, and he hoped for some miracle of miracles to unleash his dormant genius and thus lift him up to the success that he so dearly craved.
The doorbell rang yet again, rather insistently this time, and Barnabas fluttered his hands about his face, unsure of how to proceed. The conundrum was this: the person who was leaning on the doorbell so relentlessly might be a client, someone in need of Barnabas’ aid and willing to pay for it. Conversely, it might be Mrs. Crowder, his landlady. Barnabas was two months behind on his rent and eager to avoid her.
To his consternation, he heard the rattle of keys outside of his door, and then he heard the voice of his assistant. “Well, hullo, Mrs. Crowder!” said Wilfred.
Barnabas, listening from upstairs, knew his safe refuge from the horrors of an angry, unpaid landlady was about to be exposed, and he put his head in his hands in defeat.
“Would you like to come in? Have some tea, perhaps?”
Damn Wilfred for his perfect manners, thought Barnabas sourly.
“Why yes,” replied she. To Barnabas’ great chagrin he could now h
ear footsteps upon the stairs and their voices were getting closer. He looked about his office, but there was neither means of escape nor a place to hide. Despite the clutter of papers, the furniture was sparse and not large enough to hide a stout man, even if he be on the short side. “I was only just looking for Barnabas, but he’s not answering his bell so perhaps he’s not… Oh!”
Mrs. Crowder broke off as she preceded Wilfred into Barnabas’ office. His face was on the desk, his body slumped as low in the chair as he could go without his head slipping off the desk entirely. Whilst the two were making their way up the stairs, Barnabas had made the hasty decision to pretend to be sound asleep in order to explain his failure to answer the doorbell (although, truth be told, the effect was somewhat closer to someone either dead or in the process of dying rather than merely sleeping, as the muscles of his face were still tightened with consternation so that his visage was more that of someone in great pain rather than that of a peaceful sleeper).
However, Mrs. Crowder’s astonishment was soothed when Barnabas lifted his head, blinking slowly and smacking his lips in an attempt to appear newly awakened. Mrs. Crowder gave him an odd look, but she either did not realize entirely that he was faking or was too polite to point it out.
“Mr. Tew,” she said kindly (indeed she was not an angry, greedy sort at all, but rather, a kind old lady who tolerated a good deal of bad behaviour from her less-than-ideal tenant). “I’ve come to inquire as to your rent. You know I hate to be bothersome, but I do so need the money.” She looked at Barnabas, who was still trying to appear sleepy and confused, and she felt a bit sorry for the poor man. “The stove doesn’t heat itself, you know!” she said brightly, attempting to lighten the mood whilst still getting her point across. Mrs. Crowder hated confrontation of any kind, and she was loath to cause any further upset to Mr. Tew, who was looking quite red in the face. “Cost of wood and all!” she continued, politely trying to explain her request for the rent money so that she didn’t seem quite so demanding. She did so dislike upsetting the poor man!
“Oh, yes, well, ahem,” coughed Barnabas. He moved his head to and fro, pretending to shake off sleep. “Of course, I’ll have it shortly, I’m sure,” he prevaricated. An idea came to him, and he perked up. “Late payment from a client, you see. I’m expecting it any day now, and then you’ll have your rent money straightaway.” This last came out sounding a bit petulant, even to his own ears, as though the rent money was an unreasonable demand and she ought not to be bothering him with it. But there was nothing for it. It couldn’t be helped because Barnabas was in a petulant state of mind and Mrs. Crowder had come at the exact wrong time.
Not that there was ever a particularly good time for someone to come round asking for money, thought Barnabas wryly, but today just happened to be a particularly bad time. Just this morning Barnabas had lost a client. He did not lose said client to a competitor, which would have been a blow to his pride, to be sure, but a blow he was quite used to by now. Instead, Barnabas’ client, Mr. Edmund Fothergill, had actually died. Worse, he died in no small part because Barnabas had failed to discover the truth behind the menacing letters the poor man had been receiving, which left him vulnerable to the plots of his malefactor, who had taken the opportunity to murder the bloke.
The news had come to Barnabas just that morning through the post, in a letter sent by Mr. Fothergill’s son, Bennett. The letter not only informed Barnabas of Mr. Fothergill’s demise but stated that no further payments would be made because Barnabas had failed so spectacularly in his duties.
It was not only the lost income (and, of course, the dead client) that had dampened Barnabas’ mood. It was the tone of the letter. Bennett Fothergill had seemed so smug, so condescending, so high-and-mighty, so pleased with himself! As well he might, thought Barnabas now, as Wilfred and Mrs. Crowder stood there in his study looking at him. Mr. Fothergill the younger certainly had plenty of reason to be quite pleased with himself as he had just inherited a substantial fortune from his father. The only heir, the young man was certainly quite well off now. At least that should serve as a comfort to the boy…
Barnabas slapped himself on the brow as realization struck him. Of course! Obviously Bennett Fothergill had been his father’s tormentor and murdered him for the money. How could he have missed so obvious a suspect? Ah well, thought Barnabas, there was nothing to be done now. It wasn’t as if solving the case at this point in time would un-murder poor Edmund Fothergill, and there would certainly be no payment in it for Barnabas, anyway.
Which thought brought him back to the present circumstance of being in his office with Wilfred and Mrs. Crowder, who were still looking at him expectantly. Barnabas realized that one of them must have asked him something whilst he was wool-gathering and he hadn’t the slightest idea what it was. He reddened a bit more, embarrassed, and hemmed and hawed to cover his confusion.
“Yes, well, the rent money,” he guessed, for that was what they had been talking about before his thoughts meandered. “On its way, most certainly!”
“From Mr. Fothergill, yes?” prompted Wilfred gently. Due to the fact that his employer’s mind often wandered, Wilfred had mastered the art of subtly bringing Barnabas back into the conversation.
“Oh yes, Mr. Fothergill!” Mrs. Crowder exclaimed. “What a dear, pleasant man that one is. Always had a kind word for me when he came to call. You have solved his problem for him? He is doing quite well, I hope?”
“Ah, yes,” said Barnabas uncomfortably. Wilfred sent him a telling glance. “He’s doing quite well. Smashing, really.” This was not quite a lie, thought Barnabas, as the man was doing quite well at being dead (it was nearly impossible to imagine someone lying there dead incorrectly, after all!), and moreover, Barnabas assumed he had been quite smashed by the heavy cabinet that fell upon him, ending his life and transferring his fortune to his apparently murderous son.
“Oh, good!” said Mrs. Crowder warmly. “I do so like the fellow. Be sure to have him round for tea sometime, will you?”
“Yes, yes,” replied Barnabas. “Most certainly!” It was better to lie to Mrs. Crowder and hope she forgot about Mr. Fothergill and the entire affair than to upset the poor woman.
Satisfied, and glad that she hadn’t seemed to upset Mr. Tew too much, Mrs. Crowder excused herself and bustled back to her rooms downstairs, leaving Barnabas and Wilfred alone.
“Mr. Fothergill is quite dead, then, is he?” said Wilfred, who had guessed this from Barnabas’ agitated demeanour and the way he had gone all red in the face at the mention of the man. Wilfred had worked on the case tirelessly with Barnabas, but, knowing the threatening nature of the letters received by Mr. Fothergill in the past month, and considering the success rate (or lack thereof) of Barnabas’ investigations, Wilfred had thought the man’s death to be likely, if not inevitable.
“Oh Wilfred,” wailed Barnabas. “I am a failure! I couldn’t solve my way out of a wet paper bag, I’m sure.”
“Now, now,” soothed Wilfred. “That’s not so! We have had many successes over the years.”
“But many more failures than successes,” bemoaned Barnabas. “Mr. Fothergill is not the first client we’ve lost to foul play. Remember Lady Rainford and her little dog Precious?” They both shuddered at the memory of the old dowager and her fluffy white poodle. The woman loved the dog immensely and was rarely seen without him sitting upon her lap or toted under her arm like a package. However, the woman was an absolute terror to her employees and her servants hated her with a passion. She had written to Barnabas that she was in fear for her life. She said she had overheard various clandestine conversations and therefore suspected that one of her servants might attempt to kill her. Upon receiving her letter, Barnabas and Wilfred took the next train to the country to interview all of the servants as well as those in the neighbouring manor houses. But neither Wilfred nor Barnabas suspected in the slightest what would happen next.
It seemed Lady Rainford was possessed of a terrific allergy to pean
uts and swelled up with hives at the mere sight of them. They learned of this when Wilfred brought out a bag of the offending nuts with his lunch that first day. Lady Rainford had chastised him harshly and forbade him from ever bringing peanuts into the house again.
The case came to an abrupt end when Barnabas and Wilfred entered her parlour one morning to report on their continued lack of progress in discovering the identity of her would-be murderer. They found her stone-cold dead upon the floor, her face puffy and red. Precious lay by her side, licking himself furiously. The woman had apparently swollen up so badly she couldn’t breathe and therefore asphyxiated.
Confounded as to what had happened, they noticed a strong smell of peanuts near the body. Closer investigation revealed that the dog was completely covered in peanut dust, which explained why he was cleaning his fur so vigorously. Someone had doused the dog with peanuts and sent him in to his mistress as an innocent, fluffy harbinger of death.
No one could say where the peanuts came from, exactly, for the dog to wallow in them, as there were no peanuts to be found in the house; but the local police had not cared enough to be bothered by the strangeness of the dog being peanut-dust covered. They deemed Lady Rainford’s death an accident and closed the case (although Barnabas suspected that perhaps they too disliked the belligerent lady and thought her well rid of). Barnabas thought it likely that the maid who took in the dog after the murder was the perpetrator, but as it was impossible to prove, he and Wilfred had given up and gone home. The only witness was a poodle, after all, and so the truth of the matter would forever remain a mystery.
“And then there was poor Sophronia Slade, who lost her entire life’s savings to that scoundrel. If only we had foreseen that he would…”