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Cillian snatched her arm and tugged her behind him.
“The dress killed her!” she shouted before Marshall raised his fist again. “It was the dress.”
Cillian’s shoulders stiffened. Marshall froze, fist mid-air.
She stepped out from behind Cillian. “The dress...It was green...” She pictured the painting. The luxurious silk. The vibrant color. The dye used to turn it green. “It killed her.”
“What?” Marshall scoffed.
“The green dye.” Ivy inhaled slowly, trying to reassemble her thoughts. “Something bothered me about the painting, and I couldn’t understand what it was. But now I know...you gifted her the dress. It was new.”
The man shoved his sweat-dampened hair from his face. “Yes.”
“She must have worn it a lot when sitting for the portrait.” She turned to look at her husband. “And then she was sick.”
Cillian shrugged, gesturing wide with his hands.
“My mother talked of it a few years ago but no one believed it to be true. She said the dyes often use arsenic to form the green color.”
Marshall’s face paled.
“I think Mary died of arsenic poisoning,” she finished.
She heard a collective intake of breath downstairs.
Marshall shook his head. “No. That can’t have happened. It would have been safe.”
Cillian curled his hand into Ivy’s, the sensation so strong and secure she was certain they could survive anything together. “Neither of you harmed, Mary,” she repeated. “I cannot say what happened to her but if her hair was falling out and she had sores, it could well be arsenic.”
“You’re lying.” Marshall’s jaw tightened. “You are trying to protect your husband.”
“She sickened, Harry,” Ivy said softly. “Cillian was not even in town when she went missing. I think she succumbed to the poisoning.”
“Jesus,” Cillian uttered.
Marshall’s gaze skipped between the two of them. “That means...” Marshall throat bobbed. “That means...I killed her.” He staggered back a step, then another. “I killed her,” he repeated.
“You could not have known.” Cillian mirrored his steps, a hand offered out
“My God.” He retreated again coming to the top of the stairs.
Ivy looked to Cillian who released her hand and dove the moment Marshall moved again.
It was too late, though. Marshall’s boot heel slipped on the top step, and he tumbled down. Ivy saw a blur of movement and heard a sickening thud.
Cillian snatched her close, pressed a fierce kiss to her forehead, and issued an order for her to stay before he raced down the stairs to Marshall’s crumpled body.
***
Ivy hastened down the stairs with Cillian. He should have known she’d never follow his orders, but he didn’t want her witnessing whatever was at the bottom of the stairs.
The servants formed a circle around Marshall. He could scarcely hear a breath taken. Cillian shouldered his way through to find the man crumpled on the second to last step. His leg sat at an odd angle, his eyes were closed. He looked the man over briefly. He’d hated him for so many years and for nothing it seemed. Mary had died at the hand of whoever thought it an excellent idea to use arsenic as a dye.
And not because of either of them. They’d wasted a lifetime hating each other.
He looked to Ivy, her face pale, a hand clasped over her mouth. If it wasn’t for her, they might never have known the truth. Although they didn’t know the full truth yet, he trusted Ivy at her word, and it was enough. His determined wife had revealed his own innocence.
Dropping to one knee, he pressed a finger to Marshall’s neck. He held his breath and waited.
