The Counterfeit Madam

Book 9: Gil Cunningham

by Pat McIntosh

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

Gil Cunningham had hoped that the first time he set foot in the brothel on the Drygate it would also be his last, but by the time all was settled he felt quite at home within its artfully painted chambers. The bawdy house, along with the neighbouring property and two more in Strathblane, are all part of a deal offered to Gil and his wife Alys by the forceful Dame Isabella. Her proposal also involves Gil's young ward, and matters are further confused by an outbreak of counterfeit coins in Glasgow, which Gil has been ordered to investigate. Then Dame Isabella is found dead in strange circumstances, and the more Gil pursues the cause of her death, the more false coins he finds. And then the bawd-mistress, the enigmatic Madam Xanthe, gets involved and rumours circulate that the Devil is abroad in Strathblane. By the time Gil and Alys have untangled matters, some very surprising - and sinister - thing have come to light... Praise for Pat McIntosh's Gil Cunnigham series: 'McIntosh's characterisations and period detail are first rate' - Publishers Weekly, starred review 'The next Cunningham adventure is to be welcomed' - Historical Novels Review ''Will do for Glasgow in the fifteenth century what Ellis Peters and her Brother Cadfael did for Shrewsbury in the twelfth' - Mystery Readers Journal

Release date: June 30, 2011

Publisher: C & R Crime

Print pages: 305

Sample

Gil Cunningham had hoped that the first time he set foot in the whorehouse on the Drygate would also be the last; but by the time all was settled he felt quite at home within its artful painted chambers.

The first inkling he had of the matter came one day in late April, in the form of a loud knocking at the door of his father-in-law’s house as family and servants were eating their midday meal in the hall. Conversation at the long board ceased and heads turned towards the sound; Gil and Alys exchanged a surprised glance, Alys’s aged French duenna Catherine paused in her absorption of sops-in-wine. The wolfhound Socrates was already on his feet, the hackles standing up on his narrow back. A stranger, Gil concluded.

‘Who calls at the dinner-hour?’ wondered Maistre Pierre, pushing back his great chair. He rose with caution, muttering darkly about his knees, but his young journeyman Luke was before him, opening the big planked door to reveal a serving-man in unfamiliar blue-grey livery bowing on the doorstep, felt bonnet in hand.

‘My mistress, Dame Isabella Torrance, seeks Maister Gil Cunningham,’ he said. ‘Is this where he dwells?’

‘Isabella Torrance?’ Gil repeated in some surprise, going forward as Luke turned to relay the message. ‘She’s still alive, then?’

‘She’s at the gate, maister,’ said the man.

Gil looked down at his wife as she joined him in the doorway. ‘Godmother to my sister Tib,’ he explained. ‘Dwells over by Stirling, I think. I wonder if it’s about Tib’s marriage?’

‘Stirling?’ repeated Alys. ‘Whatever is she doing in Glasgow?’

The servant shrugged his shoulders.

‘Likely she’ll tell you hersel,’ he offered. ‘Will I bid her come in?’

‘Aye, bid her enter,’ said Maistre Pierre from the head of the table. ‘We are still at meat, man, ask her if she will join us.’

‘She doesny eat in the middle of the day,’ the man said, shaking his head regretfully.

There was a commotion in the pend which led out to the street, and a number of people emerged into the courtyard, headed by a short, stout, loud individual with a stick. Their guest had not waited to be invited in. Alys exclaimed briefly and hurried down the steps past Gil to offer a welcome. Her curtsy was spurned with a brief nod, her arm was ignored, and the small dark figure ploughed across the yard to the foot of the steps where it stopped, scowling up at Gil with eyes like jet rosary beads.

Dame Isabella was probably five feet high and the same around, though this girth also engrossed a vast furred brocade gown which hung open over several layers of different, equally expensive, black fabrics. Beneath a black silk Flemish hood with extravagantly long foreparts, finely pleated linen framed her small padded face, heightening its colour unbecomingly; she had a dab of a nose, separated by a dark wispy moustache from a mouthful of very large, improbably white teeth. She seemed to have brought her entire household visiting; at her back were four sturdy grooms, including the man who had come to the door, and two waiting-women.

‘So you’re Gelis Muirhead’s laddie, are you?’ she said in deep, disparaging tones. ‘Aye, you’ve a look of her, though you’re more like your faither.’ This was clearly not a compliment. ‘At least you’ve more sense than get yoursel slain the way he did. And both your brothers, was it?’

‘Dame Isabella,’ Gil said, very politely, and bowed.

‘Welcome to my house. Will you enter, madame?’ offered Maistre Pierre over Gil’s shoulder.

‘Aye, I’ll come in. You’re the good-father I take it. I hope ye’ve a seat for me. I want a word wi young Gilbert, afore that gowk Sempill gets involved. Here, you fools, get me up these steps.’

‘Sempill? John Sempill of Muirend?’ Gil repeated, but the servants who surrounded Dame Isabella had begun the considerable task of hoisting her up the fore-stair, which she endured with much shouting and brandishing of her stick. In his ear his father-in-law said,

‘What does she want with Sempill? Why should he come here?’

‘No idea,’ said Gil, stepping back to allow the nearest manservant elbowroom. ‘When did we see him last?’ He counted on his fingers. ‘It must have been August last year. It’s been the gallowglass – Euan Campbell – who brought me the money for the boy’s keep at both the quarter-days since then.’ He met Maistre Pierre’s eye. ‘If it’s about the boy, it’s likely no good.’

‘So I think,’ agreed the mason. They both turned to look inside the hall, where Maistre Pierre’s foster-child, small John McIan, bastard son of John Sempill’s runaway wife and her lover the harper, was perched on his nurse’s knee at the long table addressing a large crust of bread.

‘Sempill still needs an heir, surely?’ said Maistre Pierre doubtfully. ‘That was why he acknowledged John. What is he about now?’

‘We’ll find out soon enough,’ said Gil.

‘Parcel of fools!’ announced Dame Isabella. Achieving the topmost step, she paused long enough to adjust her grasp on her stick and surged forward, shaking off her gasping servants and ignoring Maistre Pierre’s courtesies as she had ignored Alys’s. Behind her, Alys slipped up the fore-stair and into the hall, with a brief touch on Gil’s hand as she went.

‘You’re at meat, are you?’ continued their guest, staring at the household arranged round the long board. Small John waved his crust and shouted something unintelligible. ‘I hope you’ve all had your bowels open at stool the day. It’s no good to eat on a full bowel.’

‘Will you not join us, madame?’ Alys offered, gesturing at the head of the table. ‘There is good broth, and fresh oatcakes and cheese—’

‘No.’ The black beads considered her. ‘I suppose you’re the French wife. Christ aid us, you’ve a nose on you like a papingo’s. I see he’s no bairned you yet. Has he bedded you? Is your bowels regular? You’ll no take if your bowel’s full, it unbalances the humours.’

Alys stared at the old woman, amazement outweighing her natural courtesy. Gil moved to intervene, but Catherine had already risen and now forestalled him.

‘Vraiment, madame,’ she said in her elegant French, ‘you do right to concern yourself with such matters. It is important to keep the humours of the body balanced, but I find the young are often careless of their internal economy.’


‘And who are you?’ demanded Dame Isabella in the same language. ‘You speak French uncommonly well, even if you have not kept your teeth as I have.’

Over the two black-draped heads Alys caught Gil’s eye, her expression carefully neutral. Catherine closed her toothless mouth on whatever reply came first, and Gil said hastily,

‘This is Madame Catherine Calvin, who keeps my wife company. Will you sit in by the hearth, madam, while they clear the board?’

‘Aye, and watch all,’ said Dame Isabella, ‘so I can tell Gelis Muirhead what kind of household you’re wedded into. No, I’ll ha no refreshment. It’s no my hour for it.’

‘Lady Cunningham was with us for a week at Yule,’ observed Catherine. ‘She is a most cultured lady, and speaks excellent French.’

Dame Isabella ignored this shaft, and seated herself nearest the hearth, staring about her. The household, taking the hint, began the process of dismantling the long table, stacking up platters and bowls and sweeping the cloth into a bundle to be shaken into the courtyard. By the time board and trestles were in place against the wall, Dame Isabella’s entourage had been dismissed to the kitchen, save for a man with a huge leather satchel and one waiting-woman who studied Maistre Pierre with intent dark eyes, and the two old ladies were deep in a conversation involving the humours, the elements, and the zodiac. Gil, standing awkwardly by, was aware of his wife conferring with her father, and of the mason’s two journeymen leaving the house, but his mind was occupied with possible reasons for this sudden visitation.

He had met Dame Isabella once or twice as a boy, and felt she had not improved. She had been a member of Margaret of Denmark’s household alongside his mother, which was presumably why she had been invited to stand godmother to his youngest sister. Lady Cunningham had mentioned her occasionally over the years; he vaguely recalled that she had been wedded at least twice since the death of her royal mistress, though to judge by her black garb and the pleated linen barbe pinned below her chin she was currently a widow. Small wonder, he thought.

As Tib’s godmother, it would be appropriate for her to do something for the girl before her approaching marriage, whether it embraced coin or a gift of land or jewels, and as Tib’s nearest male relative he could expect to be consulted in the transaction. But she had mentioned John Sempill’s involvement. There was no connection between Sempill and Tib that he knew of.

‘Maistre le notaire awaits your convenience, madame,’ said Catherine by the hearth. ‘We should not keep him waiting, perhaps.’


‘He’s got little enough to do,’ pronounced Dame Isabella, but she turned to stare at Gil. ‘Like my servants, the useless troop. Come here, Gilbert. Is that the brat?’ She nodded towards small John, who was just being led towards the kitchen stair by his quiet nurse.

‘That’s John Sempill’s heir,’ agreed Gil, repressing anger. ‘Does this concern the boy? My good-father should be present if so.’

‘Why? What’s it to do wi him?’

‘The boy is in my care,’ said Maistre Pierre, coming forward from the door. Dame Isabella glared at him, grunted, and gestured at the bench opposite her.

‘You may as well sit down and all, then, and listen.’ Catherine rose at this point with a murmured farewell, which was ignored, and Alys moved quietly towards one of the far windows, where she had left her needlework. ‘Now, Gilbert. You’ll ken I’ve two goddaughters, your sister Isobel and a lassie Magdalen Boyd, who’s some kin of yours so Gelis your mother tells me.’

‘Boyd.’ Gil sat down obediently beside his father-in-law, searching his memory of the kindred. ‘Aye, she is. Third or fourth cousin, I’d say. There was a brother too, name of – name of – was it Alexander? They were about penniless, I think.’

‘That was their faither’s doing,’ she said dismissively. ‘Any road, Magdalen has wedded John Sempill for her second husband.’ She looked with satisfaction at his astonished face. ‘Aye, a good match, for the both of them, and I was right glad to support it.’

‘I’d not wed my worst enemy’s daughter to John Sempill,’ said Gil. Beside him Maistre Pierre rumbled agreement.

‘He’s done better than you have, mewed up here in a town wi a barren foreigner. Maidie has no trouble wi him. But the point is, she’s in a likely way.’ Sweet St Giles, when were they wedded, Gil wondered grimly, not looking at Alys. ‘So she’s no wanting another man’s get to be Sempill’s heir, no when she’s in a way to provide him wi one. Sempill’s in full agreement, so they’re proposing that he’ll no recognize the brat as his heir any longer, and in consideration they’re offering it a bit land here in Glasgow where it’s handy.’

Gil stared at her, preserving his expression as best he might. After a moment Maistre Pierre said,

‘But does the man Sempill have anything left to offer? I thought he was hard pressed.’

‘He was,’ Gil said. ‘He was in Glasgow to deal with that when his wife – his first wife,’ he corrected himself, ‘was killed, and left her son motherless. That was why he took the boy for his heir, so old Canon Murray would leave him his fortune, though I think the old man still lives.’ He eyed Dame Isabella, hoping his dislike did not show. ‘I take it his circumstances have changed with the new marriage?’

She gave a bark of laughter.

‘Aye, they’ve changed, and for the better. So will you accept the offer?’

‘We can’t say,’ said Gil without pausing to consult with Maistre Pierre, ‘until we know what the offer might be.’

‘That’s a pity,’ said Dame Isabella, ‘for once that’s dealt wi I’ve a couple of plots to dispose of and all. There’s one of them out Carluke way, been in my family for years, and one in Strathblane, they bring in much the same rent, and we’ll can see about which goes to Maidie and which to your sister Isobel.’

‘It would surely be more convenient,’ said Maistre Pierre reasonably, ‘that the Lanarkshire property go to the Lanarkshire lassie, unless your other goddaughter dwells there also. No, she must be in Renfrewshire,’ he corrected himself.

‘We’ll can see,’ Dame Isabella repeated. Gil sat still, wondering how his mother had ever liked this woman enough to invite her to be Tib’s godmother. The bargain was clear enough: if he agreed to Sempill’s proposal for young John McIan and accepted the offered property in exchange for the boy’s present status as Sempill’s heir, Tib would get the land close to where she would be settled; if not, it was likely she would find herself in possession of a patch of Strathblane, a full day’s ride from her new home, with the attendant difficulties of administering the rent and overseeing the tenants.

‘We need to know more, madam,’ he said as politely as he could, ‘and we’ll need time to consider. As the boy’s tutor and foster-father we should take it all in advisement—’

‘You’ve an hour to think on it,’ she retorted. ‘We’re to meet at your uncle the Canon’s house. He made a right to-do about having no time, this was the only moment in the week he could spare us, as if he didny dwell and work in the burgh, so you’d best no be late.’

It was hardly worth trying to explain, Gil thought, that the Official of Glasgow, the senior judge of the diocese, had a caseload that would tax an elephant and regularly worked all the hours he was not sleeping. Sempill had been fortunate to find a moment when Canon Cunningham could see them. As for the papers he himself had to complete for the next day’s taking of sasines in Rottenrow, that would clearly have to wait until later.

‘Will we convoy you up the road?’ he suggested.

‘No, you’ll no. If you need to consult, you’ll consult, for I want a decision the day, else the whole goes to Maidie.’ She turned her head. ‘Here, Attie scatterwit, where are ye? And you, you worthless frivol. Call the men, and send out to see if Sproat’s waited like I bade him. Time I was on the road.’

When Maistre Pierre returned from seeing their unwelcome guest to the street he found Gil discussing the interview with Alys.

‘Mon Dieu!’ he said, shutting the house door and leaning on it. ‘Quelle horreur de femme! Ma mie, your nose does not in the least resemble a parrot’s, it is the image of that of your sainted mother.’


Gil had already reassured his wife on this point, though she did not seem to be concerned; now he said in Scots,

‘Christ never such another bought That ever I saw. I’ve aye thought it was little wonder Margaret of Denmark died young, given her household. So do we accept?’


‘It depends what the offer is,’ said his father-in-law.

‘I would be glad for John to be clear of Sempill,’ Alys observed, ‘but should we not consult his father?’

‘McIan? Do we know where McIan is?’ Gil wondered.

‘They were to be in Stirling, and then they are coming here, so Ealasaidh sent me the other day.’

‘We’ll not get a reply from Stirling within an hour.’

‘No, I fear not,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘But if we are both to go up the road, there is another matter to see to.’ He crossed to the hearth and reached up onto the carved hood of the chimney-breast. ‘We may take this counterfeit silver to the Sheriff while we are there.’

‘More false coin,’ said Andrew Otterburn glumly.

‘It looks like it,’ said Gil.

The present depute Provost of Glasgow was a lanky Borderer in his forties with a long gloomy face. Gil suspected his mother must have been a Chisholm, to judge by the deep, close set of his eyes, but had never quite liked to ask. The man had a difficult task; Sir Thomas Stewart, Provost of Glasgow for eight or ten years, had demitted office at Yule and Archbishop Robert Blacader had installed Maister Otterburn to take care of his burgh until the election of a new provost at the Town Meeting in the autumn. Sir Thomas had been accepted and respected, and his successor did not meet with unanimous approval. It did not help that Glasgow and the surrounding area was plagued by an outbreak of false coin, of which the first specimens had come to light in the burgh coffers themselves less than a month after Otterburn was put in post.

Now, discovered in the Provost’s lodgings in the Castle, he scrutinized the handful of coins Maistre Pierre offered him as if they were personal bad tidings.

‘Aye,’ he said at length. ‘I’d say they were out of the same workshop. See, these are all the same plack wi James Third on it, and that’s the silver threepenny piece wi four mullets on the back. I’ve had two o these brought me from the bawdy-house. The madam wasny best pleased, I can tell you.’ He turned the coin to the light, then bit it reflectively and shook his head. ‘My lord’s right keen to learn the source of these, but I’ve not found yet where they come fro’, though it seems there are more entering through Dumbarton out of the Isles. How did you come by these, maister?’

‘The placks came back from the market yesterday,’ said Maistre Pierre. ‘The maidservant who brought them thought they came from more than one trader. The silver piece I had from Daniel Hutchison, in a bag of coin.’

‘Hutchison,’ Otterburn repeated. ‘Oh, aye, he’s putting a new wing to his house, is that right? Over in the Gorbals. Outside the burgh, strictly,’ he added, spinning one of the placks. It twirled once or twice and fell over.

‘But the coin has come into the burgh,’ Gil pointed out.

‘Oh, I’m not arguing.’

‘You say they come from the Isles?’ Maistre Pierre said. ‘Who should make false coin in the Isles? Is there any source of metal?’

‘None that I ken,’ admitted Otterburn. ‘I’d not say the coin was being struck out yonder, just that it comes back in from there.’

‘So someone is taking it there,’ Gil said thoughtfully. ‘Where from, and why?’

‘Good questions.’ Otterburn spun the plack again. ‘As to where from, likely the same place as these came from, which my lord would like fine to ken as I say, but why’s another matter.’

‘To alter the balance of wealth out there?’ suggested Maistre Pierre. ‘Is there any suddenly rich?’

‘The Islesmen set less store by coin than we do,’ said Gil. ‘It’s a world of barter and payment in kind, wi little call for money within factions. I suppose if one kinship was buying the friendship of another, or buying in gallowglasses – hired fighting men, like the Campbell brothers, from Ireland or another part of the Isles – they might need coin. Is there any word of that kind of thing?’

‘When is there no?’ said Otterburn, making a long face. ‘The King didny settle matters out there, for all he took John of the Isles prisoner last year. Indeed, matters are worse, for they’re all at each other’s throats now to determine who has his place. Word is the King’s Grace is planning to go out again this spring.’ He stacked the coins neatly, considering them. ‘Would this come within your writ, Maister Cunningham? As Blacader’s quaestor? I’m thinking it’s about time we did something about it, other than wringing our hands and passing resolutions in the burgh council.’

‘It would,’ Gil said cautiously, ‘if my lord so instructed me. If you were to suggest to him that I look into it, I’d be glad to—’

‘It’s as good as done, man,’ said Otterburn. He hitched up the shoulders of his fur-lined gown, swept the coins off the table-carpet into his hand and moved to the cabinet beside the tall window. ‘Walter can scribe me a note of where these came from and I’ll put them wi the others, and then he can write to my lord. The day’s despatch has yet to go. And when that’s done and we’ve had my lord’s agreement,’ he added, ‘I’ll let you hear all I ken of the things. It’s no a lot, I confess.’

‘Pursuing false moneyers would make a change from pursuing murderers,’ observed Maistre Pierre as they made their way up Rottenrow.

Gil nodded, thinking about the conversation. Otter-burn’s slow manner and gloomy speech had convinced most of the burgesses of Glasgow that he was a fool, but more than once he had shown a deeper knowledge of what was afoot in his burgh than one might expect after less than four months in post. Sir Thomas’s clerk Walter served him willingly and well, always a good sign. If Otterburn had not yet tracked down the source of the counterfeit money, it must be well hidden.

‘I do not understand what goes on in the Isles,’ Maistre Pierre went on. ‘I had thought all was settled last year, but by what the Provost says—’

Gil eyed his father-in-law, a man in accurate touch with the politics of Scotland and most of Europe.

‘John MacDonald, Lord of the Isles, was forfeit this time last year,’ he said, ‘and did penance for all his crimes in January there, and resigned his lands into the King’s hands.’

‘That part I know. Your uncle tells me he is now the King’s pensioner somewhere in Stirling. But who is in his shoes? Someone must hold his lands and command the wild Ersche.’

‘That’s the problem, as Otterburn said. More than one possible heir, all with influence, none with authority to command the whole of the region.’

‘Has he no direct heir?’

‘He had.’ Gil paused to enumerate. ‘His son Angus Og, which I think means Young Angus, was the obvious successor—’

‘Was,’ repeated the mason.

‘Aye. Angus Og was murdered by his harper in ’90. He was wedded to yet another of old Argyll’s daughters – a sister of the present earl—’

‘So there are Campbells in it. I might have known.’

‘Indeed. There’s a posthumous son, now in this earl’s care—’

‘Ah!’

‘—and John’s two nephews are bickering with Argyll and with McIan of Ardnamurchan about who has de facto control of the Isles. It’s hardly simple at best, but it’s not easy to understand if you’re not from the Isles yourself.’


‘That I agree with.’

The front door of Canon Cunningham’s house was standing open as they approached. There seemed to be a commotion on the stairs within, and a familiar voice reached them shouting abuse from the midst of a group of struggling servants. They strode on without hesitation, to enter the house by the kitchen door, and found Canon Cunningham’s housekeeper Maggie, stout and red-faced, setting the leather beakers on a tray while a jug of buttered ale warmed at the hearth. Clearly Sempill and his party were not the most esteemed clients; those got the glasses from the cupboard in the hall, with wine, white or red, or even the Dutch spirits.

Maggie looked round as they stepped into the vaulted chamber, and nodded to the mason.

‘Good day to ye, maister, and how are ye? Maister Gil, he’s asking where you are. Oh, get off wi you,’ she added, as Gil came to kiss her broad cheek. ‘Are you well? How does Mistress Alys do?’

‘Well enough.’ Gil inspected the rack of little cakes left to cool on the broad scrubbed table. ‘She sends her greetings. These are good, Maggie. There’s nothing comes out of our kitchen quite like them. Try one, Pierre.’

Maggie looked gratified, but smacked his hand away as he reached for a second cake. ‘Away up the stair wi you, Maister Gil, I tellt you he was asking for you and they’re all up there waiting. You can get another of these after.’

‘Who’s waiting? Who did Sempill bring for witnesses?’

‘Oh, a great crowd. Sempill himsel,’ she counted on her work-worn fingers, ‘and that cousin that’s aye wi him – Philip, is it? Him that swore to revenge Bess Stewart on him and hasny done it yet, that I ever heard. Sempill’s new wife, a couple more fellows, and that Dame Isabella wi a hantle of servants, still heaving her up the stair like a barrel in a sling by the sound of it. No, maister, the cakes is for after, one’s all you’re getting. I better put them by afore they all come down to my kitchen to wait while she gets her business seen to.’

‘Aye, this new wife,’ said Gil. ‘Had you heard of the marriage? Did anyone warn the lassie’s kin?’

‘That’s what I wondered,’ she agreed, with satisfaction. ‘No, I’d not heard, and nor had the old man. He’s right put out about that. I wonder your lady mother never mentioned it, seeing the lassie must be cousins wi her. Maybe she’s too taen up wi Lady Tib’s marriage.’

‘Who was the first husband?’ asked Maistre Pierre. ‘I take it he was a wealthy man.’

‘That I’ve not heard,’ Maggie said regretfully, ‘but likely you’re right, maister, and he left her better off than he got her. That Sempill wouldny take her without something to sweeten the match. Or maybe this land that Dame Isabella’s to settle on them was the attraction.’

Gil nodded. He had set eyes only once or twice on either Sempill cousin since the episode, almost two years since, when Sempill’s runaway wife Bess Stewart had been discovered dead in the half-built addition to the cathedral. Gil had been directed to find her killer, and in doing so had made the closer acquaintance of Pierre Mason and his daughter Alys; by the time the matter was solved he was betrothed to Alys, his intended career in the church abandoned, and Pierre had agreed to foster Bess’s baby son, with Gil as the boy’s guardian. John Sempill’s interest in the child was solely financial, which in Sempill’s case, he thought now, would be a more powerful attraction than parenthood, and if the man’s financial position had changed then his attitude to the boy had probably changed too.

‘And that Dame Isabella,’ Maggie pursued, ‘I opened the door to her manservant, and the maister cam down the stair to greet her himsel. So she asks him a gey intrusive question and tells him he’s looking his age. As for the names she calls her folk! I’ll keep out her road while I can. And then,’ she went on, setting her hand on the jug of ale to test its temperature, ‘there’s her two nephews, and you’ll never guess who one of them is.’

‘Go on, then,’ he invited as she paused.

‘That lad Lowrie Livingstone,’ she said triumphantly, and lifted the jug. ‘Here, you might as well make yoursel useful.’

The company Maggie had detailed was seated in a half-circle on the new carved backstools, Dame Isabella just taking her seat at the centre beside another lady. To one side were Sempill and his cousin, on the other was the lanky fair-haired Lowrie Livingstone with a man who must be his kinsman. Facing them Canon David Cunningham, senior judge of the diocese, was ensconced in one of the window spaces, surrounded by stools, a succession of documents spread on top of each. His balding head was covered by a black felt coif and round legal bonnet, and his furred gown was drawn up a. . .