Disclaimer: NCIS characters and situations borrowed; varying license taken with historical persons. Victorian universe courtesy of Sequitur.

A/N: Continuing thanks to those of you who have been following along, and a very special thanks to those who have taken the time to PM or review. You guys, as always, rock.

Those of you in the path of Hurricane Irene – be safe!

A PERSON OF SOME CONSEQUENCE

Chapter 6

Anthony watched Battenburg as he strode away, disappearing through the sitting room where they'd entered, and McGee, with his last words to Gibbs, as he hurried to follow. Even as their footsteps still echoed across the large room, Anthony turned back to Gibbs with an expression that was half-apology, half-plea.

"Sir..."

As he should have anticipated, Gibbs brushed away his yet-unvoiced protests as he came close enough to Anthony to speak without fear of being overheard. "We have only minutes before Battenburg returns, Anthony." He gestured around the room. "Is there anything more you can tell me about anyone or anything here that is best not said in his presence?"

Anthony hesitated only a moment before acknowledging the inevitable, that Gibbs would not be dissuaded from seeing things through in the matter, by his side if not in the lead, until what was to be done was done. He shook his head slightly, and took one long look back to Lady Danforth's body before he began to move methodically around the woman, looking for anything out of place or suggestive of what had befallen her. "Often in recent weeks she had been in the company of Prince Edward Albert, in his entourage," Anthony supplied as Gibbs crouched down for a closer look at the body between them, "although from my observations she was not ... one of the inner circle. Not yet." His eyes remained on the floor, the furniture, anywhere now but the still form. Seeing that Gibbs looked back to him in silent question, Anthony could offer only, "she seemed ... innocent ... of all that yet. Less jaded or ..." He hesitated again, in a sad, reflective tone not a common one for him. "More ... naive, somehow. As if she believed she was included simply for her wit or her own enjoyment of the stage." Unbidden, his eyes returned to her still form, face down across the dark red rug.

"Her husband was not a part of the 'entourage,' then?" Gibbs' words intruded quietly.

"No." With a deep breath, Anthony focused again to speak as dispassionately as he could. "Beyond a very few plays early on, I do not recall seeing Lord Danforth at any of the performances his wife attended – certainly none after she was included in the Prince's immediate company." He paused again, and added, his tone both reticent and angry, "from his Highness' attentions to Lady Margaret, Sir ... I believe he had every hope that he would be enjoying her intimate company quite soon. "

Gibbs sat back on his heels from his close inspection of the woman, looking up at Anthony. "What do you know about her husband?"

"Lord Charles?" Anthony shrugged, shook his head. "Maybe twenty years older than his wife, a widower before he married her. I know only the most general of the gossip about him, Sir, and mostly from the tongues wagging when Lady Margaret first took her seat next to the Prince for that evening's fare, but he is generally thought of as bland and uncomplicated."

"One prone to anger if cuckolded?" Gibbs asked bluntly.

Anthony considered, but shook his head slowly. "One loyal to the throne?" he allowed. "Maybe one so traditional that he would see the Monarch coveting his wife in the same way he would see the Monarch appreciating his faithful service at the Foreign Office?"

Gibbs grunted at that. "Another reason that marriage is over-rated, Anthony," he murmured, then stood, looking across the room to nod toward a door in the far wall. "Another entrance, or another room?" he asked. Anthony immediately crossed the room and, turning back to Gibbs and drawing out his handkerchief with a flourish, used it to cover the knob before turning it. "For Miss Abigail," he said wryly.

Gibbs returned the smirk, having been privy to only part of the most recent, enthusiastic bubbling of Dr. Mallard's ward as she waved her newest text before them. He'd heard enough of it to know that she believed it provided even more support for one of her pet theories, that not only were fingerprints unique, person to person, but that they could help prove their owner's guilt – or innocence – when properly identified. Anthony hadn't yet been convinced, but from his brotherly affection for Abigail, her insistence that they should do nothing to disturb in any way the fingerprints existing at a place they were investigating – and from his own vested interest in not becoming anyone's suspect – he had been minding more closely than ever what he touched as he worked. And now, opening the door with his handkerchief thrown over its knob, he peered through, disappeared inside for a few moments, then stepped back in the room to say, "a wardrobe, Sir; the size of a small room itself, with a vanity and dressing table as well, but no separate exit. Nothing appears at first glance to be out of the ordinary."

At Gibbs' nod, Anthony closed the door again and, rather than crossing back to him, continued his efficient sweep of the room, slowing only once or twice to take special note of something before moving on. What he did not see was the small, settled look of approval on Gibbs' features as he turned back to his own observations without having to direct his protégée what to do next.

After a few moments of silent examination, Gibbs never moving too far from the body or the rug where she lay, he asked, "Is there any reason to think that Lady Danforth was in residence here, that this was a room she would have been provided for her use?"

Anthony stopped, looking around again at nothing in particular as he considered Gibbs' words. Narrowing his eyes, he finally shook his head slowly, "no, Sir. At least, if in residence, not this room."

"Why?" At Gibbs' question, his second turned to look at him warily, as if he feared his impressions were suddenly suspect. The older man shook his head slightly as if to deny such thoughts, then explained, quietly, "I am not the one who grew up in a home like this one, Tony. Why do you say not this room?"

Anthony's eyes carried both his initial relief and the strain from present events that he was, overall, hiding fairly well. "Well," he began, walking again around the sitting room, his eyes running over everything in a second and third sweep, "first of all, there is no bedchamber here, and a guest's suite would have at least one attached. Also, there is no sign of a trunk or valise in the wardrobe, and no toiletries at the vanity. A woman of her standing would not be able to spend even one night in the home of royalty without at least three changes of clothing, and the shoes for them, and evening bags, and of course night clothing and make-up and all the things for her hair..."

Gibbs looked up from the entryway floor he'd been studying to fix Anthony with a glare, which had its effect of hurrying the younger man to his point.

"...and third ... I believe if we ask we'll find that this is the private sitting room of Princess Alexandra."

Even under the circumstances, Gibbs felt the warmth of pride rise in him yet again at the younger man. Just by being a keen observer in their past engagements, Anthony was developing into a fine investigator in his own right, incorporating the lessons of those cases with his own unique background and experience. And in this, Gibbs mused, Anthony's own history would allow him insights that neither he nor the others in his service could offer. "And how came you to that decision, Anthony, in these few minutes?"

"Well, Sir, the photographs of the children, after all ... the quality of the appointments and fittings of the room ... and the size of the room itself, given where we are."

"Which is where, Tony, do you know?"

At the question, and the slight testiness with which he asked, Anthony turned back to his mentor in surprise. "Of course, Sir; you do not?" Before the growl could come to confirm what was apparent in his expression, Anthony said quickly, "this is Marlborough House, Sir – the primary residence of the Prince and Princess of Wales."

Anthony watched his mentor as he registered the implications and looked around the room yet again with that knowledge in mind. Having seen nothing out of the ordinary in the room beyond the body of the Lady Margaret stretched out there, Anthony felt another surge of frustration not only at her death, but also at the circumstances under which they all now found themselves, apparently due to little more than his own frequent nights at the theatre. "What does Battenburg expect us to find in thirty six hours?" he blurted, almost rhetorically. "How can he expect our best work when he answers no questions and then puts a time limit to things as well? what can he expect us to find in thirty six hours?"

With a deep breath, Gibbs turned back to Anthony, his expression grim. "Maybe the more disturbing question is – what happens at the end of thirty six hours?"

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So focused was McGee on his mission to collect the doctor, and still a bit dazed by all the extraordinary happenings that had interrupted his breakfast that morning, it had simply not occurred to McGee that the lovely Miss Abigail Mallard might be at home as well. He had not yet been tested in the ways of keeping a secret from her, and it suddenly dawned on him that such a thing might be just as hard as hiding his thoughts from Gibbs himself.

"Miss Abigail, I ... I..." McGee stammered, then swallowed and shook himself a bit, inside. "I was not expecting the pleasure of seeing you this morning. And no, it is not that I have come calling – or, well, yes, I have come calling, as here I am, but..."

Her eyes went big as saucers as she gasped, "McGee, is someone hurt? Are Gibbs and Tony safe?"

"Yes, they are fine, Miss Abigail, but we have ..."

Immediately Abigail relaxed with his assurances, and as her eyes danced merrily to see that she had once again upended Gibb's young man, she reached out to take his hand and pull him along to the parlour. "Then come along, Timothy, and sit with me; Ducky is with someone at the moment, so even if your business is with him and not with me, it will be another few minutes, I think, before he is free. Is this a new case?" Her eyes took him in for only a very few moments before they grew again, but this time with excitement. "Oh, it is, and Gibbs has sent you to fetch Ducky, which is wonderful, Timothy, as he usually comes himself or sends Anthony, because when he involves Ducky in a case he wants to be sure there is no danger to him and therefore wants Ducky with someone he trusts ... don't you see, by sending you, Gibbs has as much said he trusts you with his friend's safety and from Gibbs, that is no small compliment."

At Abigail's enthusiastic praise, the fact that he had been chosen more likely because he was the least valuable to the immediate investigation faded somewhat at the thought that Gibbs had nonetheless shown confidence in him. His sense of urgency had faded along with it – but only for the briefest of moments. Again shaking his thoughts back to business, McGee pressed,"Miss Abigail, no one hopes more than I that you're right, and that Gibbs has that sort of confidence in me – but for now it is of the utmost importance that Dr. Mallard come with me, straight away. Can he not be interrupted?"

"Well, I suppose he can, but you told me Gibbs and Anthony are well. Is someone else injured?"

"No, but ..."

"Then it will only be another very few minutes, Timothy; I am most certain of it." Abigail settled into the cushions, sweetly stubborn and clearly bound to make him wait. "In the meantime – what is it brings you for Ducky this time? Tell me of this new assignment of yours." She beamed at him, beautifully, hoping for the latest intrigue.

"Not ... not an assignment, exactly ... or, well, yes, I suppose it is, but..." Timothy squirmed, realising he needed far more practice at dissembling if he were to remain in Gibbs' employ, especially for those moments he needed to engage in subterfuge to obtain information, or to pass himself off as someone he was not ... or to avoid telling everything he knew to the engaging Miss Mallard. "An acquaintance of Anthony's," he finally seized upon an idea, "had need of some advice, and..."

"...and Ducky is needed. And not for someone ill – so for a body?" Her voice had dropped to a dangerously conspiratorial level, and her green eyes had widened even more. "And an acquaintance of Anthony's? Ooooh, Timothy, tell me, who is this acquaintance? For all his blather and love of conversation, Anthony is so loathe to talk about himself or his friends or family anyone outside of our little group." Abigail's imagination began running several moments ahead of her words, and she suddenly gasped, a grave look of concern taking her over, "Anthony himself is not involved in this body's demise, is he? McGee, Tony would suffer the gravest torment before he would ever harm someone without cause. Surely the body was not someone he killed..."

"No, Abby, Anthony did not kill her," he tried to soothe. "Of that I am certain."

With that, Abigail sat back for a moment, her brow clearing with McGee's assurance, but her expressive features shifted in the next moment to a small, sweet smile as she looked back to him. "So it if was not Anthony who killed this woman," she asked innocently, "who was it? His ... 'acquaintance?'"

McGee groaned. In one small sentence, after only a few questions, he'd all but confessed that not only was there a death, but that it was likely a wrongful killing, and a female victim at that. With such a quick defeat, there was nothing left for him to do but seek her mercy. "Miss Abigail, I beg you, ask me nothing else; Gibbs has sworn me to say nothing and any confidence I may have won from him will be stolen back just as quickly if I say anything more."

"I shan't tell him anything you tell me, you have my word," she began.

"No matter," he shook his head firmly, "for you know as well as I that Gibbs will know what was said as readily as if he sat here with us. There is nothing that escapes his attention," McGee moaned. "He must know even this very moment that I've told you this much."

"But it's not as if I'm a stranger, Timothy," Abby urged, "you know full well I am included in as many of his intrigues as ..."

The sound of men's voices suddenly spilled into the room from the hallway as an inner door opened, and Timothy was never happier to be interrupted in his time with Abigail as he was at that moment.

"This is certainly an honour, Doctor," came an enthusiastic, unfamiliar male voice, "and I look forward to it."

"Nonsense, my lad, your interest is admirable, and I am pleased to hear that you wish to augment your education in this way." Dr. Mallard's voice was unmistakable. "I look forward to your participation."

The voices neared and, looking up expectantly, Timothy saw Dr. Mallard appear in the hallway with a young, dark-haired, bespectacled man, looking a bit gawky and grinning widely. At their appearance, Abby stood immediately and approached them, causing the younger man's smile to grow even wider, if that were even possible. With that, however, Timothy also stood, flushing with a sudden heat to see Abigail smile so winsomely as she turned her attention on the interloper.

Fortunately for them all, Ducky spoke before any of the others did. "Timothy! What a pleasure to see you. Are you here to see me?"

"Yes, Doctor," he managed.

"Well, then." He looked between the younger men, then realized, "ah, my apologies. Timothy, this is James Palmer. Mr. Palmer is a medical student and the son of a dear friend. Young Jimmy has an interest in some of the post-mortem findings about which I recently published, and he will be observing here from time to time as his studies at university allow. Mr. Palmer, this is Timothy McGee. Mr. McGee is quite the inventor, you know."

"Oh! I've never met an inventor before." Palmer held out his hand enthusiastically, and McGee could only hope that the man was as guileless – and hapless – as he seemed, as such a man would be less likely, he hoped, to hold Abigail's attention for long.

"Nor I a medical student," McGee mustered a smile for the man as his offered hand was pumped energetically by the beaming student.

"Mr. McGee, I am all yours," Ducky announced. "Abigail, would you show our Mr. Palmer the door, please?" After more pleasantries, Abby managed to lead the medical student out of the parlour to the hall, and Ducky turned to McGee to speak quietly, "Timothy? Timothy," he repeated, managing on his second try to wrest McGee's attention back from his ward and to the reason for his visit. "Surely that brougham at the curb is not yours..."

"No, but it is waiting for us." McGee remembered himself and, remembering also his haste, said quickly, "Gibbs and Anthony are waiting for us. Time is of the essence." At the doctor's worried frown, he added, "they are fine, Ducky; they are on a new assignment. But our time is limited."

"I'll need my bag, then, I suppose?" Dr. Mallard turned to hurry back into his consultation suite, gesturing for Timothy to follow him.

"Er ... yes. No one is injured," Timothy added quickly, "but ... there is a body," he added in a whisper.

"Indeed. Well," the doctor turned to his bag, removing some items and replacing them with others. "Do we yet know how much access I will have, and if we will be able to remove it afterward for additional study here?"

"Uh ... well, you will have some privacy and access where she is now, but beyond that, I do not know. I suspect that may be all, but that is only my guess. And ..." Wary of doing so but aware that it might make a difference to the doctor's preparations, McGee added, "Gibbs said the woman was not killed where she now lies."

"What?" The doctor turned to him, immediately angry. "The body, moved? How far? From where to where?" At McGee's helpless shrug, Dr. Mallard turned back to the bag, yanking it closed as he fussed, "how can it be that people these days are not only willing to take a life, but then to treat the body of the departed as poorly as they did the life itself? I mean, really!" He turned back to McGee, who stood blinking at what he worried was his second major slip of the tongue in almost as few minutes, and almost as immediately, the doctor relented as quickly he'd angered. "But as you did not move the body, Timothy, my railing at you is uncalled for."

"As far as you know." Both men turned at the distinctively raspy voice, and saw Abigail in the doorway, grinning expectantly. "I don't suppose I could be of any assistance there as well?"

"Alas, my dear, Timothy arrived in a brougham. There will be room only for the two of us," Ducky offered gently, adding, as he saw that she drew breath to protest, "and I know you are too much of the lady now to suggest that a third person might be fitted in as well."

She pouted prettily, if not a bit insincerely. "One of these days you will find that I may be of use at the scene of the crime and not only hidden away in the laboratory afterward."

McGee blinked at that, looking at her in surprise. "What 'laboratory?'" he asked. He knew that Abigail had an interest in his inventions and in her guardian's test tubes and textbooks, and had even sit in with Gibbs and the rest of them as they chewed on a mystery or two ... but a laboratory, a real one? Not impossible, but for a gentlewoman, even she ... truly, Abigail?

"Timothy – time? Of the essence, you said?" As Dr. Mallard lifted his well-worn bag and nodded toward the hall, he saw McGee shake his head a bit and move toward the doorway, taking his leave of Abigail. The doctor then followed behind, stopping to look at Abby affectionately. He leant up to place a kiss on her forehead and, stepping back, said kindly, "maybe next time, my dear."

"You always say that, Ducky," she smiled wistfully.

"Indeed? So I do." As the doctor spoke to his ward, McGee stopped in the hall, turning to watch them as he waited. "Remember that Gibbs is a bit old fashioned, Abigail, especially in his need to protect the fairer sex," the kindly older man said, "and no matter how aware he may be of what you have seen and heard here and elsewhere, he still feels the need to protect you from what he believes are the world's harshest blows. Is that so hard to understand?"

"Not to understand, perhaps, but to accept? It is the broadest misapprehension of mankind in general, Ducky, that women need protection from those things men bear. Why, you yourself have said more than once that women can withstand..."

"My dear," Ducky interrupted gently, and gestured toward McGee. "May we have this discussion later?"

Abigail glanced over to McGee and offered a small smile of apology. "I am sorry, Timothy." She came close to scoop her arm through his and walk him to the front door, Ducky close behind. "Hurry on, then, you two – and Timothy," she added, a coquettish quirk to her smile. "If you do hurry back – maybe I'll let you see my lab."

As McGee stood in the doorway, feeling a blush of anticipation coloring his cheeks, the doctor brushed past him and on down the steps. "Come along, then, McGee," the good doctor called from the walkway to the waiting carriage. "If you dillydally much longer, that offer just might expire."

To be continued...