“What type of event was it?” I questioned.
“A dance. Lydia framed it as a way to let the community know the SnowDrop Inn was back in business,” Wickham answered.
“You were paid?”
“Of course.”
“What was the total of your fee?”
He gave a number without hesitation. It was close to the amount the Bennets had reported as stolen. In my opinion that wasn’t an accident.
“And who approved the payments?” I asked.
“Lydia,” he said. “With her parents’ knowledge. They were all very happy to have hired me.”
“I was informed that you had given your services for free,” I told him.
Wickham laughed. “Why would I do that? My time and expertise is worth money. If I weren’t hired by the Bennet family, I certainly would have worked at a different event.”
“They insisted that you agreed to work for free,” I pressed.
“Do they have any proof of that? I don’t recall signing anything to that effect. As I said, I’m a busy man and would never work for nothing,” Wickham told me with a smirk on his face.
There was no written agreement. The Bennets had already admitted to that folly. It was their word against Wickham’s word which made for a weak case and I realized that Wickham knew that.
“Was there a written agreement?” I asked, even though I knew the answer.”
He spread his hands slightly. “No. Everything was discussed verbally.”
I let that sit for a moment.
“So there was no contract,” I repeated.
“No,” he agreed. “Which was fine at the time. Everyone seemed comfortable with that decision.”
Comfortable. Another careful word.
“The Bennets insist that you were working for free and you stole the money from the ticket sales,” I revealed.
Wickham gave me a look that approximated shock. “Did they really? How terrible that they would accuse me of such a thing. Just because their event was smaller than anticipated, doesn’t mean they should try to recoup their losses on me. Have they told anyone else? I might have to sue them for defamation or slander. I really don’t understand the legal term, but if they are damaging my reputation with such blatant lies…”
He shook his head like he couldn’t believe it.
It was almost believable.
“And the charity funds have gone missing as well. The money raised during the dance,” I added.
His brow furrowed, a convincing display of concern. “I never handled that money.”
“You didn’t collect it?” I persisted.
“No.”
“Did you see where the box went?” I questioned.
“I assumed the family had it,” he said. “They were running the inn.”
“You didn’t ask.”
