‘Better than me,’ said Frederick with a smile.

‘You taught her well.’

‘Actually, I’m not his wife. I’m his boss. And he didn’t teach me shit.’

The old man frowned and his mouth opened and shut, opened and shut. A fish out of water. An old man in a new world.

*

On the second drive, just after a few shots rang out, I heard it. The unmistakable female cries of, ‘No no no!’

I looked at Peng. Both she and her bodyguard had turned towards the sound but were unharmed.

I scanned the field. What was going on? Was this a diversion? Was an attack beginning?

‘Frederick, stay with Peng. I’ll go.’ I raced towards the sound, shotgun in hand, and reported in to my earpiece, ‘Potential hostile disturbance. Investigating now.’

The noise had come from the edge of the forest. I rounded the corner to see Lady Wycombe, clasping her pearls, staring down at the ground at a dead bird.

What the hell?

Was the lady of the house a secret vegan?

‘Is everything OK?’

‘No. Things are not. The gamekeeper clearly told everyone that guinea fowl were out of bounds on today’s shoot. But someone . . . someone has shot George.’ She motioned towards the headless bird.

‘You name your birds?’

‘Guinea fowl are on our family crest. We keep several on the estate that we have raised from birth for good luck.’

I walked away from a mourning Lady Wycombe.

‘False alarm,’ I said into my earpiece. ‘It’s a dead bird.’

‘But isn’t that—’ started Hattie.

I cut him off. ‘Don’t ask.’

*

We got through another two drives in two different locations with the only casualties feathered. I kept scanning the rest of the shooting party. It was a small group just made up of politicians and business associates. I couldn’t see any of them being the Coyote. They were too deep in their element to be anything other than the identities they claimed. If the Coyote was going to strike, it would have to be as an intruder or as a guest tonight.

We got back to the castle to see rows of dead pheasants laid out in lines outside the impressive entrance. A macabre presentation of the afternoon’s bloodshed. In case the castle and the dead birds weren’t quintessentially English enough, we were all then hustled inside for Earl Grey tea with jam and scones.

Ensconced in a window seat, I observed them all. The crackle of the drawing room’s large fire and the clink of fine china. The low murmur and chuckles of the guests in conversation. The thought of a wild Coyote intruding upon this quiet afternoon scene seemed too unlikely.

Frederick joined me. ‘What do you think?’ – he motioned towards the Foreign Secretary – ‘under the buffoon-like appearance he could be a dab hand with a weapon. A Coyote in disguise.’

‘With a speciality in boring people to death.’