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

A/N: Again, this is later than I'd planned, but the way this chapter developed it ended up being divided earlier than originally planned, so the next chapter already has a couple pages done – hoping that means not so long a delay next time. All comments and thoughts welcomed.

A PERSON OF SOME CONSEQUENCE

Chapter 9

"Walk with authority and purpose, as if you are exactly where you ought to be at all times, and without a care in the world."

The admonition rang in McGee's ears as he let his pace match those of others walking along the Mall around him, stretching away from the Palace on what clearly was, for the many pedestrians he saw along the way, a mild and pleasant Saturday. His heart had managed to settle into a little less of a galloping pace as he'd slipped out of Marlborough House, apparently unnoticed, and he affected a zig-a-zag route before pointing himself toward Lady Ziva's home.

He allowed himself a moment's congratulations that Anthony surely would have been proud of him, that he'd thought to stop and purchase a newspaper from one of the boys on the corner; it not only allowed him to look a bit more at leisure, at blending into the crowd, but gave him a chance to peer behind and otherwise around him. It did occur to Timothy that he was wholly inexperienced at recognizing a 'tail,' Anthony had dubbed it, should he have one, but was canny enough to look for a sudden shift of activity behind him, a fast change of direction or even a quickly darted pair of eyes. He caught none. As much as the sheer normalcy around him offered a tempting sense of success, Timothy quickly put aside the satisfaction it brought him as he focused on his task. Gibbs, Anthony and Dr. Mallard were still back there and would face the likely wrath of the Prince when he was discovered missing. And as much as he wanted to tell himself they would not face actual danger from their own sovereign's man, the hairs on the back of his neck would not lie down. The whole morning had a sense of dark malevolence that only deepened, the further they'd been drawn into it. The thought made him alternately want to hurry faster, and want even more to be doubly cautious.

McGee glanced around again and affected a pace that matched those on the faster end of the crowd, still settling into the overall movement of those passing along the street. He remembered to keep his expression untroubled and pleasant, as if he were planning a stop at his favorite book seller. He couldn't help but let his thoughts turn back to Anthony's gleeful lessons in playacting, as he demanded all the while that such things made all the difference and would be needed when he least expected it. That rather prophetic thought, coupled with the more serious, sober Anthony he'd seen this day, and the valiant, heroic Anthony he'd seen the previous night and again this morning, left him thinking again how he had misjudged the man time and time again. And just what he wants people to do, McGee told himself in a sudden epiphany. What in the world lay in the man's past to make him so noble and yet so keen on making himself an irritant?

Knowing his time might be better spent on the assignment at hand, Timothy shook off the thoughts and, as he set out toward Lady Ziva's London flat, promised himself that he would give the matter of his curious friend more thought later. At present, he had several jobs to do, not the least of which was to find Ziva David and enlist her help. The latter he hoped would be offered without question; any time he'd seen her assisting them she did so in good spirits and focused manner. It was the former that might be his greatest challenge. He knew that the Lady had several homes and was seldom in one place for too long, and even when in London might be staying somewhere other than her own rooms. McGee had simply assumed from Gibbs' words that she should be in town, and at home, but the closer he got, the less certain he was. He knew that if he did not find her at home that his few, ill-informed guesses at where she might be found were unlikely to bear fruit.

So he dared step up his pace, just a bit, hoping that like so many of the society women of her standing, the Lady Ziva had been out the evening before, dancing and visiting until the early light of dawn threatened its appearance. If that were so, she might well still be at home, asleep, and the most important portion of his mission easily accomplished.

He had to remind himself a few times along the way to breathe, as one would make better time when not holding one's breath in anticipation.

xoxoxoxoxoxox

Once McGee had left them, Gibbs made his way back to where Battenberg stood watching Ducky with a frown, as the physician grumbled at the arrangements and the lack of dignity accorded the recently deceased. The dressing room screen, brought in from a nearby boudoir for the purpose of allowing Lady Margaret some dignity, had been the subject of some debate between Battenberg and the doctor. Battenburg demanded that he be allowed to oversee that which normally would have been done in Ducky's private offices, and clearly still intended to see more than Ducky felt necessary or proper. As he watched, Gibbs noted that for the first time in the whole affair, the Prince was thrown off his game and rattled a bit with Ducky and his examination. It was something probably few would have noticed; most simply would have seen a slightly more irritated and impatient Prince than they had in moments before. But Prince Louis had, through the entire morning with them, been cool and in control, hiding exactly what he wanted to hide and showing them a bit of his temper – or his authority – only when he sensed it served his purpose. This was different, and whether it was due to Ducky's behaviour and responses, or simply the closer inspection at hand of the corpse, Gibbs couldn't yet tell. He would, however, watch for more. And take advantage of this sudden chink in the man's armour as needed.

Moreover, Gibbs made note that not only had Anthony met his eye as McGee slipped away, acknowledging that Timothy's leave had been taken, but that his protégée's keen nose for others' emotional barometers had not faltered, and it took some doing for Gibbs not to show a grin of amusement as he watched the younger man's response to it: Anthony would watch the struggle between Ducky and Battenberg until just the moment when the two men seemed to find a way that the screen, and Lady Margaret and the Prince and the doctor would all be best served, at which time he would suddenly move in to move the screen, an offer of help on his lips and a suggestion that the screen would be better just so, which would result in an explosive objection from Ducky that it could never do, followed by heartfelt apologies from Anthony as he offered another adjustment, which of course was not to the Prince's liking. To his credit, Anthony managed three cycles of changing things around before Battenberg narrowed his eyes at him suspiciously and banished him to stand several feet away, once even threatening to break any hand that touched the screen again. With Anthony's help, the ten minutes or so that McGee might have had now had stretched to more than twenty. Gibbs vowed to remember to offer one of his rare compliments to Anthony for his quick-witted catch of the opportunity and making the most of it.

"Doctor, how can you be so sure of the time of her death?

The Prince and Ducky had managed to come to an understanding, and Battenberg watched, as he could, with a deepening frown. Gibbs found the man's sudden focus on the murder of interest, and he catalogued for himself some various reasons. The Prince had all but ignored the woman as he fetched them to Marlborough House and her side; he all but stepped unthinkingly over her, as if it was anything but a human being lying there, and one he had known, socially, at that. Now, as the examination was taking place, Battenberg was keen to know what would be found and, Gibbs thought, possibly even remembered that it wasn't a length of wood lying across the rug, but a woman with whom he might even have danced some brief hours earlier. The man's demeanor appeared to shift with more concern than any fear of discovery, but concern for what? Gibbs narrowed his eyes as he sought answers not yet presenting themselves.

Gibbs shook himself to listen to Ducky's reply, listening for both what he did and did not say to the Prince. He had known and worked with the doctor long enough to know that Dr. Mallard would share only those facts which would answer the basic questions of when and how she died. Any suspicions of foul play, and at whose hand, would be saved for Gibbs and Anthony, in private. He knew that Anthony was as aware of that as he, but noted that Anthony now crept in closer, and in doing so, closer to Battenberg, as if this would be his best chance to catch what the doctor had to say. Battenberg noted it and became even more attentive. Gibbs felt himself nearly nod in approval at his protégée's manipulation of their host.

"You realize, of course, that once someone dies there are changes that occur, over time," Ducky was explaining. "Those changes have been observed and recorded quite scientifically, so that ranges have been developed, based on body temperature combined with its relative rigidity or lack thereof. And after many years one develops one's own sense for the environment as well, and how it may play a part ... oh, my dear..." Ducky interrupted himself, speaking now to Lady Margaret as he leaned closer. "I am sorry."

"Doctor?" Battenberg's question was immediate and clear.

Ducky straightened, his eyes narrowing a little as he looked to the Prince and, Gibbs knew without question, responded with information that might be true, but was not the source of his comment – at least not all of it. "There is bruising on her of a rather – intimate – sort, which would indicate that someone with whom she has been intimate was violent with her, abusive. These particular marks do not necessarily mean that the intimacy itself was forced, only that the act itself was – but we may see more later."

"Where, Ducky?" Gibbs asked softly.

"Her breasts – there are both hand prints and bite marks, and both recent and older. I am sorry that you suffered so at someone's hands, my dear," he added, looking sadly at the woman.

"Nothing that would be fatal," Gibbs commented.

"Not these, no."

"Doctor, if you would..." Battenberg gestured back to the corpse, and Ducky continued his examination in silence. Gibbs stole a glance to see if the news had affected Anthony and he saw at once it had, but that the younger man was determined not to let it show: his eyes had shifted into an even harder, driven look than he'd seen earlier that day, and the muscle at his jaw clenched as it tightened. But he did not drop back, waiting again for any chance to break Battenberg's hold on the situation – or to allow McGee even more time before he was discovered missing.

That time, however, was soon to end.

Both Gibbs and Anthony sensed the Prince's growing impatience, and asked the doctor random questions, just related enough to allow them to seem honestly offered, but general enough that Ducky could answer them without compromising the information he might want to keep for their ears only. At first the Prince listened attentively, but as more time passed, he seemed to disengage and suddenly, looked around the room quickly before leveling an accusative look at Gibbs.

"Where's McGee?"

Gibbs simply raised his eyebrows to look around the room as well, giving himself a moment to gauge the man's reaction before he spoke, but Anthony nodded and spoke first. "Ah, well, Sir, McGee has not been with us all that long and has seen no more than two or three corpses before. He is still a bit ... tender ... in the strength of his stomach – and I daresay, his bowels – when it comes to an investigation of the body. When I last saw him he was looking a bit weak in the knees, and I suspect he may be off ridding himself of a rather delicious breakfast. But not to worry, he'll come 'round – he always does."

To Anthony's credit, it sounded wholly believable, more for the way he said it and not the words. He barely took his eyes off of Ducky and his work, offering his explanation with a shrug and, mid-way through, a bit of a smirk to himself, as if remembering past occurrences of the same, less than experienced investigator – which Gibbs knew had never once happened since McGee had been with them. Gibbs had long known that Anthony had a flair for the dramatic and had a talent for spinning tales in the spot – but this, low key and anything but flamboyant, offered under the circumstances in which Anthony, in particular, found himself – it was a wonder, even for him. It appeared that the long hours spent in the theatre had rubbed off a bit. Even Gibbs, who knew him as well as any man did, might have been convinced of the sincerity of his words.

But if the Prince was convinced of Anthony's sincerity, he wasn't quite ready to trust either one of them, and he glanced back to Gibbs. "Did he say anything to you?"

Once again, Anthony's quick wit intervened – this time with what sounded like a small, stifled snort. As if compelled, the Prince looked back at him, and Anthony looked properly chastised. "Begging your pardon, Sir." He waited until the Prince's glare demanded explanation, and he looked properly sober and sincere when he said, "it's just that McGee would rather die than have to tell Gibbs he was made ill by a crime scene. I have been known to carry the same preference, myself."

With a dismissive snort of his own, the Prince looked back toward the doctor. Gibbs knew he would most certainly have to have a word with Anthony for his actions this day. No matter what else occurred, this day had found Anthony doing his finest work. Gibbs found himself wondering if the man sensed just how well he'd done.

But there were only moments left now before the Prince would become more demanding. Gibbs cleared his throat and asked, "Ducky, will you be able to determine how she died?"

The older man sighed as he sat back on his heels. "In the most general of terms, yes. More specifically, possibly." The clear blue eyes peered at him from behind his spectacles, and, seeing from his long familiarity with Gibbs that he had his permission to go ahead, the doctor turned back to the body and said gently, "at least 'twas a far more peaceful passing than waking life for you, m'Lady." Looking back to the men, Ducky said, "I believe she was drugged; poisoned, after a fashion. She was given something that would have let her drift off into sleep, and on from there to a slow cessation of her heart and organs. Death would have taken, oh, maybe an hour."

"What drug, doctor?" Battenberg pressed.

Ducky looked appropriately contemplative. "Well, Sir, there are several that come to mind. Not all of those are available without some advance planning, and some not readily available in London at all. Of those, the ones that would not have a very brief period of necessary potency..."

"So you don't know which drug it was, doctor?" the Prince interrupted.

The Scotsman's expression was bland at the man's frustration. "Without the equipment at my office, I am reticent to choose one over another. Had I an opportunity to look into this further..." Ducky could not resist the temptation to make his point – again. "If you truly want to know how she died, and of what, you'd be well advised to let each of us do what we do – without tying our hands."

"Your suggestion is noted, doctor. Are you finished?"

"Hardly," the doctor snorted. "I haven't even finished half of the external examination. You see, in such a case, there are certain tell-tale changes – or not – in the skin, the nail beds, other places. A thorough examination makes it far more likely to obtain an accurate determination of the drug used to kill her."

As Ducky bent back toward the body, his words drawing the Prince's attention with him, Anthony allowed himself the briefest look toward Gibbs. Without words they each acknowledged that even Ducky's borrowed time was running out. Gibbs allowed himself the tiniest tip of his chin and look of pride for a job well done, which Anthony caught before looking away and was reflected for another moment or two in his own, quietly appreciative expression.

Battenberg came to them for a reason, Gibbs reflected. It hadn't been the first time their clients had been less than forthcoming. Knowing that they were on the path of obtaining the information the Prince claimed to want, and knowing that if he'd wanted an investigation that played by the rules, he would have called the Met, Gibbs simply waited now. And he was right – it wasn't long at all.

xoxoxoxoxoxox

McGee had gone to Lady Ziva's home but found neither the Lady nor a servant there to answer the door. Not even a servant? He hoped fervently that it did not mean she was abroad again.

Glancing about, he tried peering in the windows, although with her terraced home, his efforts showed him nothing that would mean the lady of the house was in town or not, something he knew before looking, but, in his frustration, tried anyway. It occurred to him it might be as uninformative to see if her carriage was there, but it was all he could think to do at the moment. A carriage in the stable might mean she was either inside or abroad; the carriage gone could mean she was simply nearby visiting or a day's ride away at Hampton Court or elsewhere. If a horse or two was there, he wasn't sure if it meant she was less or more likely to be inside, asleep, and her maid at the market.

Still ... it might tell him something...

He made his way down the narrow access path between buildings down the way, hopeful that he could access her stable – and determine which was hers – without having to make his way across other yards, or scale fences, or break into places owned by those who would not take kindly to such trespasses. Anthony seemed to think that such behavior was inevitable in their trade, and seemed wholly reconciled to it, but Timothy had avoided doing so under his own volition and had hoped to continue doing so. He found himself holding his breath that his good luck in getting away from Marlborough House would hold.

He discovered that he could come around the back of the line of stables, all open to a back alley that allowed for the coming and going of carriages, and saw that behind it there was even a paddock, undoubtedly for the residents to allow their horses to run or graze. All he needed to do was count down the row to determine which home was Lady Ziva's to pick out her stables, behind it.

But as he came around behind the stables and neared the one that should be hers, he could hear a shifting, sliding sound, accompanied by occasional soft thuds, which he could not decipher into meaningful information. All around him the birds sang and the horses whinnied contentedly, and Timothy took that as a sign that the noise was not our of the ordinary here — or at least, no real threat. He neared the open stable doors, but as he did so made out that the noises were not inside at all, but on back, beyond the small paddock. They were most certainly man-made, as no animal made the thudding sounds he heard. Walking carefully at its wooded edge, so as not to give himself away, McGee came toward the sounds, his curiosity getting the better of him. He assured himself that it was merely to ask where he might find the Lady Ziva, and that it was a Gibbs-like hunch and not desperation that made him think this was a good idea.

He made his way back to a small clearing, where he saw immediately the source of the noises he'd heard. The clearing, hidden from the world by the thick stand of trees on three sides and the manicured shrubs circling the paddock on the other, contained two youths sparring, clothed in what he recognized as close-fitting fencing garb, the mesh faceplates on their protective headgear and similar builds making them look like a matched set of overgrown toy figures. Yet instead of fencing foils, the lads each had the quarterstaffs becoming more and more popular among the sporting set, and they worked through a series of moves that looked more like a dance than a true contest.

In spite of his haste, McGee paused a moment; he doubted mere stableboys could afford such fencing garb, and if these were the Lady's neighbors who'd trespassed into a fine spot for their practice, interrupting them might bring more problems than assistance for him at the moment. But he had no other ideas for finding Lady Ziva and if they knew her, they might be of help, and he made his mind up to interrupt them and ask.

As he had mulled things over, though, the pair's actions had taken on a subtle difference: the moves had become sharper, quicker, and more intense, and now the actions of one proved more aggressive, as the other moved to meet and defend. The second was clearly less adept than the first, and Timothy could see that this was a lesson of sorts, all conducted in silence and, from what he could tell, grave seriousness. The 'teacher' pressed his student onward, and McGee heard the student breathing more heavily now to meet the challenge. Timothy was hesitant to interrupt the lesson, considering both his uninvited intrusion and his own resulting safety, but time really was of the essence. He stepped away from his hiding place and out toward the clearing. "I say! You fellows–"

The pair abruptly ceased all action, both turning their masked faced to him in mute attention. Each held still as a startled deer for the moment, until one of them, the one he believed to be the student, ducked his head slightly and, as quickly as that startled deer, ran off through the nearby brambles.

"Wait; I mean no harm..." McGee called after the lad, his remorse genuine but fading quickly in his hurry to find the Lady. "My sincere apologies for interrupting your games, but I am in great need of finding the mistress of the house, the Lady David." He nodded back toward the elegant terraced home. "Have you seen her about today? Can you tell me where she might be found?"

His words were met by a silently tipped head, as if the boy were determining whether or not such a rash, insistent assault on a lady could have any legitimate reason. McGee could barely see inside the mesh of the fencing mask, and he found himself wondering vaguely how the boy could see enough to spar. Shaking off the thought, he added, making himself seem as unthreatening as he could, "I am an acquaintance of hers, and our mutual friends have great need of her time." The head bobbed slightly, but the lad said nothing. Frowning a bit at the odd reception, for the boy did not seem to fear him and, McGee began to suspect, was having a bit of fun at his expense, Timothy drew a breath to ask again, when the youth, still not speaking, raised a hand the back of his mask and made to pull it off. When he did so – to McGee's stunned surprise – "he" shook out waves of rich, dark hair, and the Lady David's amused expression met his.

"Mr. McGee! To what do I owe this pleasure?"

...to be continued...