Robinson Speke stood, his legs akimbo, Baden-Powell shorts billowing in the strong breeze. He let the map case swing at his hips as he folded his arms and studied the signpost. After a minute, maybe two, he allowed himself a slow, self-congratulatory nod. ‘There,’ he thought. ‘That’ll teach the doubters and nay-sayers. The Thomases and Amandas of this world. Absently but instinctively his free hand went to his hair, moving the roving comb-over back into its place across his speckled pate. He felt good and, damn it, he looked the part. The plaid woolen socks and Oxford brogues just made the ensemble work.

Briefly he contemplated trying to see if he could take one of those selfish pictures he heard so much about and which obsessed the young people but decided he would leave that. Possibly someone could be prevailed to snap him when he had the prize itself.

Thinking about the reason he was here galvanized him. He couldn’t risk someone else turning up and stealing him glory. Oh no, that wouldn’t do at all.

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