Grizzled, rough shaven and bleary eyed from the nights excesses.
Barnaby is a man of average stature, bald of head and stubbled of chin. You wouldn’t call it a beard, though.
He dresses in a black leather overcoat, top hat and assortment of decidedly unkempt work clothes. Everything about him appears slightly worse for wear.
Barnaby is, in a word, annoying. He farts, he complains, he drinks too much, he talks too much, can’t sit still and is ever ready to jump to a conclusion. Especially the wrong one. It doesn’t help that he considers himself a ladies man, but is in fact a lecherous pervert.
Though armed with a cleaver and revolver, he favours the shotgun – partly for the big holes it makes in animates, but mainly for the loud noise and the fact that the pellet spread covers for a wobbly aim brought about by his hands being unsteady because he hasn’t yet recovered from the excesses of the night before.
And with Barnaby, every night is the night before.
Not much is known about Barnaby’s past. He probably can’t remember much of it himself, given that most mornings are spent crawling out of a bottle.
During his time with the party he leered at all the ladies, annoyed everyone to no end, punched the Doctor’s valet and threw up on her sitting room floor. And yet they put up with him. Even helped him when one of his “girlfriends” ended up in a spot of bother.
Eventually he pushed the wrong buttons too far when he followed Mordechai beyond the walls of London to accuse him of killing Dee. At gunpoint. The dozy gobsh*te.