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

A/N: Any comments, complaints or questions welcome, as always. If it's possible to be objective about one's own writing, I haven't figured out how! So hearing your thoughts are a huge help!

This week it's Tropical Storm Lee with the overactive waterworks – and over and over and overactive! Be safe out there!

A PERSON OF SOME CONSEQUENCE

Chapter 7

After his initial rounds of the room, Anthony reached into his coat to draw out the small diary he kept at hand, along with the bit of pencil he kept tucked inside with which to make a few notes and sketches when they worked. At least five minutes had passed since Prince Louis had escorted Timothy out to find him a coach and driver, and Anthony took a moment to compliment himself silently on his ability thus far to remain composed enough to make use of those minutes – although the presence of their too silent companion, Lady Margaret Danforth, in this place, and with this host – made him wonder how he managed. Whether or not I would have wanted Gibbs pulled into this matter, even had he done nothing else today he has stayed me from being either a horse's ass, or an avenging sword, or a blubbering fool – all of which he'd felt stirring in him at one point or another since their arrival.

Anthony spared the smallest glance back to his mentor, who had finally broken off from his close examination of the body to gaze around at the room generally, no doubt wondering, as he himself had, what to make of Lady Margaret being left here as she had. A message, from the killer? If so – why, and to whom? A message of sorts seemed most likely to Anthony: Lady Margaret's body most definitely had not been hidden, and the room was not situated along any sort of path to another place, making it unlikely that the killer simply left her behind upon suddenly being unable to take her further. And she lay face down, her face tipped very slightly to one side, and her limbs and clothing were adjusted just so, as if arranged, not at all as if dragged or abandoned in haste.

...as if the killer wanted it to appear she'd died right here? Tony found himself shaking his head slightly, discounting the thought. Not unless this place holds some special significance for the killer and his audience...

"Tony, we will want to speak to those persons who may know of anyone with reason to kill Lady Danforth," Gibbs spoke quietly, still looking around at the room. "Reasons to do with her, of course, but from what you have said, reasons also that her death would mean something to the men in her life – all of them." Gibbs looked back to him. "It may be easier to say after Dr. Mallard has a look, but at this point we cannot know whether this were a crime of passion or of premeditation."

"Because of where and how she lies," Anthony nodded, the circumstances preventing him from taking much pride in the fact that his thoughts had followed the same path Gibbs' had. "But it's an odd sort of thing, Sir, isn't it? It is possible that the room might have significance for the killer, whatever the reasoning, but off center, on the floor?" Gibbs waited as Tony looked back at the body, thinking, then came back around to bend down for a closer look. In a moment he looked back to Gibbs. "On the rug, Sir..." re realized, "because of the dark red color? To hide any blood?"

"Or other bodily fluids. Possibly. But I see no indication that any have seeped away from the body, have you?"

Tony looked along the body where he stood, then walked around to the other side, suspecting that while Gibbs would have seen anything that might be seen, the older man was relying on his second's own crisp vision to spot any small traces that his once hawk-like vision might not now catch. That done, Anthony straightened and shook his head. "No, Sir." He considered a moment. "Just in case, then?"

He could tell that Gibbs wasn't convinced, but the older man said, discounting nothing yet, "we'll know more when Ducky examines her."

Anthony considered him, looking at Gibbs now as closely as he had looked at the room around him. "But you don't think he will find anything. Nothing to cause blood or other stains there."

Gibbs' expression shifted only slightly, a change few would notice and fewer understand. But Anthony had learned much at Gibbs' side, and more and more often now read the signs of Gibbs' inner thoughts as easily as Dr. Mallard read the marks and mars on a body to determine how one died. And Gibbs was bothered by what they found there – where they found the Lady and how, the myriad reasons a killer would leave the body just so, and the meanings – or lack of them – that could be involved.

With the knowledge that Gibbs was as unsettled by these things as he was, Anthony frowned. "If not for that reason, then..."

"Too many possibilities," Gibbs mused, "especially if we are dealing with someone who is above average intelligence, with unlimited resources, with certain ... protections ... not available to the public at large." Anthony knew Gibbs was watching him closely, judging if he understood the implications in all they had seen so far and probably wondering as well if his assistant could remain focused and detached if the worst were borne out.

Anthony looked back to the woman before them, his thoughts flitting rapidly from his own past to the present before him. No matter the advantages and luxuries of wealth and position, no matter the 'protections' the upper class and royalty might enjoy, they had their own dark side, as Anthony himself knew even better than Gibbs might suspect. In that very moment, in the face of the finest things money and power could obtain, it occurred to Anthony that there was no cravat or topper so fine, nor horse so sleek, that it could come anywhere close to the comfort and pride he gained regularly in but a passing nod of approval from Gibbs for a job well done.

Unconsciously, Anthony shifted to stand straighter, his own expression carrying the sober, determined look of an investigator. All traces of the theatre-loving, roguish, well-born gentleman of leisure were gone as he looked to Gibbs. "And for just those reasons, Sir, Lady Margaret deserves our very best efforts."

Gibbs nodded, his steady gaze softening slightly. With a sigh, he tipped his chin toward the diary in Anthony's hands. "You've made note of the room, and the placement of things in it as well as Lady Danforth?"

"Yes, Sir; and the measurements, as best I could pace out." He frowned down at his scribbles, mentally cataloguing what else he might add as he thought over all they had seen and heard that morning: while there was relative wealth of time to speculate later, for now, Battenburg would return any moment, and any privacy he might have with Gibbs soon gone. "Sir," he suddenly remembered. "You deliberately misquoted Battenburg's words back to him."

Gibbs glanced toward him, lifting an eyebrow and, Anthony thought, maybe showing the faintest expression of pride that he'd recognized it. "While I am gratified that you noticed, Anthony, I can't help but wonder if the Prince did."

"More and more, Sir, I am under the impression that he misses very little." Anthony's eyes narrowed as he reconsidered Gibbs' words. "Do you really think that..."

A sudden flick of Gibbs' hand silenced him, and Anthony too heard the sound of steps in the hall outside the room where they stood. Gibbs tipped his head in a clear direction that he get back to his tasks, and, as Anthony turned back to the room's perimeter and his diary entries, Battenburg entered the room. With a quick look to each man, and clearly assuming they'd conferred in his absence, the Prince sighed. "Well, gentlemen," he began, his tone – and demeanor – seeming more direct and familiar now, with just the two more seasoned investigators there. "What have you discovered thus far?"

xoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Their carriage had barely gotten underway when Dr. Mallard fixed Timothy with a serious, appraising look and said gravely, "I don't believe I have seen you this unsettled about an assignment, Timothy, since you involved us in the death of your landlord. Is this a personal matter for you?"

McGee blinked in some surprise, both the doctor's words and his own feeling of nervousness excitement confirming for him that the good doctor had a point. He shook his head quickly. "No, Ducky – it's just that ... well, you will see for yourself soon enough."

"What will I see, my boy? What do we know about the deceased?"

"Ducky, I'm sorry, but I was told I wasn't supposed to tell anyone anything about any of this..."

"Nonsense, they wouldn't have meant me," Dr. Mallard protested, "after all, that is what we're about now, is it not, your fetching me to assist in the matter?"

McGee was actually relieved to have been given the directive. Even if he had believed that the Prince didn't want him speaking with anyone at all, including Ducky, Timothy was relatively confident that Gibbs would not mean for him to keep the doctor in the dark. Certainly both Gibbs and Anthony would have told Dr. Mallard what they'd learned of events thus far, and both likely to expect Timothy to do the same. But a recitation of the facts, even as limited as those known to Timothy at the moment, would mean he'd be remembering the evidence once again, such as it was, and even an unseasoned investigator like himself would be thinking over again the things he was thinking – about the Prince of Wales! McGee most assuredly didn't want to revisit those thoughts, not liking the implications one bit, so if he could rely on an order to keep his peace, and that order let him stick his head in the sand for another few minutes, then he was their man for it. That being decided for himself, he folded his arms and tried his best to look as certain of himself as Gibbs always managed to do. "I am sorry, Ducky. I was given a specific order not to tell anyone."

Dr. Mallard looked closely at the youngest of Gibbs' assistants and saw that the man was indeed at sixes and sevens with the matter. Relenting kindly – after all, it would take only moments for Gibbs or even Anthony to apprise him of what they knew, as always – the doctor settled back into the luxurious leather cushions and nodded, accepting the response for what it was. "Well then, you're doing well to carry out your instructions, Timothy, always a wise choice if you were not instructed precisely how far those instructions were to be followed. Can you at least tell me how long a ride we have ahead?"

McGee had been so deep in thought on his way to the doctor's house he could only guess from his knowledge of London's streets, rather than offer an informed estimate from his ride to the Mallard home. "Probably fifteen minutes or so, maybe less."

"Well then, I suppose I can keep my curiosity at bay for fifteen minutes." The good doctor observed his companion for another moment and, feeling a need to ease the younger man's nerves a bit, cast about for a topic of conversation that might allow just that. "You know, it was unfortunate that we were in such a rush to leave, Timothy. It might have done you some good to make a better acquaintance of Mr. Palmer, the young man whom you met this morning. The two of you are close to the same age, and he has lived here in London all his life. I daresay it would be well for you to meet some other young people your age, those who have a more – traditional – lifestyle than the one you have now with Gibbs. Although..." Dr. Mallard's brow furrowed a moment as he considered, "Mr. Palmer's father is a brilliant man and a great doctor. I am given to understand that his son is quite bright as well, and he took a very early, keen interest in his father's work. But as a medical student himself, he's shown a particular interest in post-mortem studies ... some have even gone so far as to find it a bit ... peculiar, I'm afraid. What I'm certain is just a familiarity borne of his years at his father's side, as his father allowed him some access to his work, apparently has surfaced as a tendency to speak up in his classes with probing questions and good insight – but with rather a lack of perception as to how it sounds to those not similarly enlightened. It has served only to make him a thorn in the side of some of the less open-minded lecturers, and the butt of the other students' unkind attention."

McGee's initial, rather unfocused attention on Ducky's story sharpened with the doctor's words, both for their confirmation that the medical student might soon talk himself right out of Abigail's interested attention – or even deeper into it – and for their unsettling reminder of being one of those boys whose interest and proficiency in school marked him as a bit of an oddity. He suddenly felt an empathy with the bespectacled student, assuring himself that the man would therefore most certainly become quite a wonderful doctor, before remembering that the man also therefore might make too fitting a companion for his lovely Miss Abby...

Dr. Mallard was continuing, "it well may be, Timothy, that in this case you would be the better companion for him than he for you, as far as helping a young neophyte negotiate the ways of London society." The doctor chuckled, almost sadly. "I suspect our Mr. Palmer has spent too much time with his doting parents and governesses, who naturally were deeply impressed with his academic interest in his father's profession, and too little time with companions his own age. I realize that the both of you are now young men, and needn't be thrown together to be playmates as you might have been as schoolboys – but I do hope you might take an afternoon or two with him." Dr. Mallard sighed. "His father is an old and dear friend, and, quite frankly, one to whom I owe a rather large debt due to one of Gibbs' adventures not all that long before you joined us. The senior Dr. Palmer is hopeful that not only will Jimmy's afternoons in my office appease his fixation to learn more about the dead, but that he can have some time in conversation with Abigail and her friends. Dr. Palmer is enough of a diagnostician to see that his son could benefit from treatment ... but is at a loss to know just the right cure."

"I would be happy to visit with Mr. Palmer, Ducky," McGee answered aloud, as his thoughts added silently, and to be there at Abigail's side any time Mr. Palmer seeks her out for 'conversation.'

"Thank you, Timothy," the doctor said, his smile a satisfied one. "Now then," he allowed his smile to tease a bit as he glanced around the interior of their sleek carriage, unable to resist the urge to demonstrate his own investigative powers to Gibbs' youngest apprentice. "I don't suppose you're any less sworn to secrecy about why we find ourselves in Princess Alexandra's brougham, are you, my lad?"

xoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Gibbs turned to the Prince. "Thus far, we have discovered little, other than the fact that there is nothing else to discover here – unless, of course, Dr. Mallard determines something from the body."

"Or we are able to observe more once she is moved," Anthony added, coming near to stand shoulder to shoulder with Gibbs. "We will need to speak with those at last night's dinner party. And the servants, all of them."

At the united front before him, Battenburg drew a deep breath and shook his head slightly. "I'm afraid that is impossible, gentlemen. I'm sure you can understand how sensitive such a matter can be."

"If what you want is to have this murder covered up, there are easier ways to go about it, your Highness." This time it was Gibbs who spoke in sudden angry frustration, the twist of sarcasm that colored the man's title completing his accusation. "The law defining homicide is not limited by the status of the persons involved..."

"Gibbs..." Anthony cautioned. He'd seen, if Gibbs had not, that Battenburg had approached them on his return with a more open, candid manner than he had at any time that morning, and at Gibbs' accusation, that openness had been quickly replaced with the first sign he had shown them of the anger of which he was capable – the sort of anger that could banish citizens from their homeland, call armies to war ... and order executions that would never be prosecuted.

Whether it was the cautionary tone in Anthony's voice or something in his expression, Battenburg drew back slightly, and Gibbs would reflect later that there must be some ineffable spark between them, maybe Battenburg recognizing some traces of nobility in Tony the way he himself could recognize a military man, no matter how long after his service. At the moment, however, even though his anger, Gibbs registered that Anthony had somehow managed to calm the moment in one mere syllable. He bit his tongue to wait for Battenburg's response, and watched closely as the man paused to consider his own words. "That is true, Mr. Gibbs," he nodded, finally. "But it is not why you were called." As Gibbs drew breath to ask the obvious, the prince continued, evenly, "we would like to know what you are able to discover about Lady Margaret's death."

Anthony spoke quickly as well, before Gibbs could say more. "And surely you understand, your Highness, that when our hands are tied by limiting our access to your staff or refusing to tell us who was in attendance at last night's dinner, you limit what can be discovered."

It was at that moment Gibbs anger shifted so palpably that Anthony could feel it as it did. He glanced quickly to his mentor to see the blue eyes widen in realization, and a smile curl one side of his lip. "And that's just what he wants of us, Anthony," Gibbs said, his eyes never leaving Battenburg's. "Prince Louis wants to know what can be managed by those of us who may be less willing to accept his limitations at face value." He stared at the Prince for long moments, a small, cynical laugh now lifting his voice. "And just how far those limitations may be stretched in thirty six hours."