As news of Polegate spread, Wickham’s name became mud in Salcombe. It turned out he had debts in every pub, girls who had gone out with him for an innocent drink were under suspicion of having been seduced, and any young man who had gone out for a drink with him remembered Wickham being only on the receiving end of a round, never buying a round.
Bad news was constantly followed by worse news. Wickham, it seemed, had feigned an interest in diving. His true motive, however, had not been to admire the watery depths but to plunder the precious wrecks around the South Coast. Fortunately, he had failed to find any treasure, but he had gained another name. A rogue, a cheat, and now a plunderer. Could his reputation sink any lower?
Mr Collins, enjoying the horror, sent an email to the Bennets to console, adding that “the death of Lydia would have been a blessing in comparison.”
Meanwhile, Mr Bennet returned from Newquay, having thoroughly investigated the lap-dancing clubs, his hair wild and unkempt, his eyes rolling with a crazed look and a curiously happy smile on his lips, but with no Lydia.