CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE COUNTESS OF HURSTMONCEUX.
The beauteous woe that charms like faded light,
The cheek so pure that knows no youthful bloom,
Well suiteth her dark brow and forehead white,
And in the sad endurance of her eye
Is all that love believes of woman's majesty.
—Elliott.
In the meantime Lady Vincent reached Banff. She drove at once to the principal hotel, where she engaged a room into which her luggage was carried. With a gratuity to the coachman who had driven her she dismissed the carriage, which returned immediately to the castle.
Then she ordered a fly and drove to the police station—at that time a mean little stone edifice, exceedingly repulsive without and excessively filthy within.
A crowd of disreputable-looking ragamuffins of both sexes and all ages obstructed the entrance. Surely it was a revolting scene to one of Lady Vincent's fastidious nature and refined habits. But she did not shrink from her duty. She made her way through this disgusting assemblage, and found just within the door a policeman, to whom she said:
"I wish, if you please, to see your inspector."
"You will have to wait in the outer room, then, miss, because he is engaged now," replied the man curtly; for the beauty of the woman, the costliness of her apparel, and the fact of her having come unattended to a place like that, filled the mind of the officer with evil suspicions concerning her.
He opened a door on the left and let the visitor pass into the anteroom—a wretched stone hall, whose floor was carpeted with dirt and whose windows were curtained with cobwebs. A bench ran along the wall at one end, on which sat several forlorn, stupefied, or desperate-looking individuals waiting their turn to be examined. Two or three policemen, walking up and down, kept these persons in custody.
Claudia could not sit down among them; she walked to one of the windows and looked out.
She waited there some time, while one after another the prisoners were taken in and examined. Some returned from examination free, and walked out unattended and wearing satisfied countenances. Others came back in the custody of policemen and with downcast looks.
It seemed long before the inspector was at leisure to receive her. At length, however, the policeman she had seen at the door came up and said:
"Now, miss!"
Claudia arose and followed him to another room—a small, carpeted office, where Inspector Murray was seated at a desk.
He was a keener observer of character than the policeman had proved himself to be; and so, despite the suspicious circumstances which had awakened that worthy's doubts, Inspector Murray recognized in his visitor a lady of rank. He arose to receive her and handed her a chair, and then seated himself and respectfully waited for her to open her business.
Lady Vincent felt so much embarrassed that it was some time before she spoke. At length, however, she took courage to say:
"My errand here is a very painful one, sir."
The inspector bowed and looked attentive.
"Indeed it is of so strange and distressing a nature that I scarcely know how to explain it," she said.
"I beg you will feel no hesitation in making your communication, madam. We are accustomed to receive strange and distressing complaints."
"Sir," said Claudia, gently preparing the way, "you have not failed, then, in the course of your professional experience, to observe that crime is not an inmate of the houses of the impoverished and the degraded only, but that it may be found in the mansions of the rich and the palaces of the nobility."
"Without a doubt, madam."
"Then you will be the less shocked when I inform you that the circumstances which have driven me to seek your aid occurred recently in Castle Cragg, in the family of Lord Vincent."
"It is not the murder that was lately committed there to which you allude?" gravely inquired the inspector.
"Oh, no, not that murder; but I greatly fear there has been another one," replied Claudia, with a shudder.
"Madam!" exclaimed the inspector, in astonishment.
"I fear it is as I have hinted, sir," persisted Claudia.
"But who has been murdered?"
"I suspect that a harmless old female servant, named Katie Mortimer who became aware of a dangerous secret, has been."
"And—by whom?"
"I fear by a woman called Faustina Dugald and a man named Alick
Frisbie."
Now, it is very difficult to surprise or startle an inspector of police. But Mr. Murray was really more than surprised or startled. He was shocked and appalled, as his countenance betrayed when he dropped his pen and fell back in his chair.
"Madam," he said, "do you know what you are saying?"
"Full well, sir; and I entreat you to receive my statement in detail and act upon it with promptitude. Your own investigations will discover how much cause I have for my suspicions," said Claudia firmly.
The inspector drew some writing paper before him, took up his pen, and said:
"Proceed, madam, if you please."
Claudia commenced her statement, but was almost immediately interrupted by the inspector, who said:
"Your name, madam, if you please."
Claudia started and blushed at her own forgetfulness; though, in truth, it had never occurred to her to introduce herself by name to an inspector of police. Now, however, she perceived how necessary it was that her name should attend her statement.
"I am Lady Vincent," she replied.
There was an instantaneous change in the inspector's manner. His deportment had been respectful from the first, because he had recognized his visitor as a lady; but his manner was obsequious now that he heard she was a titled lady.
"I beg your ladyship's pardon," he said. "I had no idea that I was honored with the presence of Lady Vincent. Pray, my lady, do not inconvenience yourself in the least by going over these painful things at the present hour, unless you feel that it is really necessary. I could wait on your ladyship at your residence and receive your communication there."
"Sir, I thank you for your courtesy, but I prefer to make my statement now and here," replied Claudia.
The inspector dipped his pen in ink and looked attentive.
Claudia proceeded with her communication. She related all the circumstances that had come to her knowledge respecting the disappearance of Katie, and the inspector took down her words.
Then she mentioned the more recent evanishment of Sally and Jim; but she alluded to these facts only as collateral circumstances; she could not believe that the two last named had lost their lives.
When the inspector had taken down the whole of her statement she arose to go.
The inspector also arose.
"Will you investigate this matter immediately?" she said.
"I will do so to-day, my lady," replied Mr. Murray, bowing deferentially.
"Can I be of any assistance to you in pursuing your inquiry into this affair?"
"Not at present, I thank your ladyship," replied the inspector, with a second bow.
"Then I will bid you good-morning."
"I beg your ladyship's pardon; but would your ladyship deign to leave your address with me? We might need your ladyship's personal testimony."
"Certainly," said Claudia. "I shall go to Edinboro' to-day, where I shall remain at the best hotel, if you know which that is, for a few days; before I leave I will write and advise you of my destination. And now there is one important part of my errand that I had nearly forgotten. It was to ask you to advertise for the missing servants, and to authorize you to offer a reward of two hundred pounds for any information that may lead to their recovery."
"I will do it immediately, my lady," replied Inspector Murray, as he obsequiously attended Lady Vincent to the door and put her into the fly.
She drove quickly back to her hotel, where she had only time to take a slight luncheon before starting in the eleven o'clock coach for Aberdeen, where, after four hours' ride through a wildly picturesque country, she arrived just in time to take the afternoon train to Edinboro'. It was the express train, and reached the old city at seven o'clock that evening.
Among the many hotels whose handbills, pasted on the walls of the railway station, claimed the attention of travelers, Claudia selected "MacGruder's," because it was opposite Scott's monument.
She took a cab and drove there. She liked the appearance of the house, and engaged a comfortable suite of apartments, consisting of a parlor, bed chamber, and bathroom, and ordered dinner.
Now, by all the rules of tradition, Claudia, ignominiously expelled from her husband's house, deprived of her servants' attendance, far from all her friends, alone in a strange hotel in a foreign city, with a degrading trial threatening her—Claudia, I say, ought to have been very unhappy. But she was not. She was almost happy.
Her spirits rebounded from their long depression. Her sensations were those of escape, freedom, independence. She felt like a bird freed from its cage; a prisoner released from captivity; a soul delivered from purgatory. Oh, she was so glad—so glad to get away entirely, to get away forever—from the hold of sin, that Castle Cragg, where she had been buried alive so long; where she had lived in torment among lost spirits; where the monotony had been like the gloom of the grave, and the guilt like the corruption of death!
She had passed through the depths of Hades, and was happy—how happy!—to rise to the upper air again and see the stars. This, only, was enough for the present. And she scarcely thought of the future. Whatever that unknown future might bring her, it would not bring back Castle Cragg, Lord Vincent, Faustina, or Frisbie.
After she had refreshed herself with a bath and a change of dress, she went into the parlor, where she found a warm fire, a bright light, and a neatly laid table.
And whatever you may think of her, she really enjoyed the boiled salmon, roasted moor-hen, and cabinet custard she had ordered for dinner. After the service was removed she sat comfortably in her easy-chair before the fire, and reflected on her future movements.
She liked her quarters in this hotel very much. The rooms were clean and comfortable; the servants were polite and attentive; the meals delicately prepared and elegantly served.
And she resolved to remain here for the present; to write to her father by the first American mail; and while waiting for his answer, beguile the interval by seeing everything that might prove interesting in the city and in the surrounding country.
And in a locality so rich in historical monuments as this was, she was sure of interesting occupation for the month that must intervene before she could hear from her father in answer to the letter which she meant to write.
She had brought with her from Castle Cragg all the ready money she had; it was something more than two hundred pounds; so that there was nothing to fear from financial embarrassments.
After settling this matter to her satisfaction, Claudia, feeling very tired, went to bed, and having lost two nights' rest, immediately fell into a deep and dreamless sleep, that lasted, unbroken, until morning.
Her first sensation on awakening from this sleep of oblivion to the consciousness of her altered circumstances was—not humiliation at her own unmerited dishonor—not dread of the impending, degrading trial—but pleasure at the recollection that she was free; that she was away from Castle Cragg; that she would not have to meet Lord Vincent and Faustina at breakfast; that she would never have to meet them again.
Ah! only those who have been compelled for months to breathe the vitiated atmosphere of guilt can appreciate the excess of Claudia's joy at her deliverance. It was a joy that not even the distressing circumstances that surrounded her, and the trial that awaited her, had any power to destroy.
To one who knew her position, without being able to enter into her feelings, it would have seemed an extravagant, an unnatural, an insane joy. Perhaps she was a little insane; she had had enough trouble to derange her reason.
She arose gladly. She had a motive for rising now; formerly, at Castle Cragg, she had none, because she had nothing to do. Now she had to order her breakfast, write to her father, and drive round to see the old city.
She dressed herself quickly and went into the parlor. The windows were already opened, the fire lighted, and the breakfast table was laid.
She went to the windows and looked out. The morning was clear and bright. It seemed to her that even Nature sympathized in her deliverance. The winter sun shone down brightly upon Scott's monument, that stood within its inclosure in the middle of the space before her windows. Yes, she was pleased with her quarters.
She rang the bell and ordered breakfast, which was quickly served. When she had finished her morning meal and sent the service away, she got her writing-case from her trunk and sat down to write to her father and give him a detailed account of her misfortunes.
But she found a difficulty in arranging her thoughts; her mind was in too excitable a condition to admit of close application. She commenced, and discarded letter after letter.
Finally, she gave up trying to write for the present. There was time enough; the foreign mail, as she had ascertained, did not close until six o'clock in the evening. She thought a drive through the old city would work off her excitement and tranquilize her nerves. She rang and ordered a fly, and drove out.
First she went to Holyrood, and soon lost all consciousness of her own present and individual troubles in dreaming of all those princes, heroes, and beauties of history who had lived and sinned or suffered within those old palace walls.
She went into Queen Mary's rooms, and fell into a reverie over that fatal bed-chamber, which remains to this day in the same condition in which it was left by the hapless queen about three hundred years ago. She saw the steep, dark, narrow, secret staircase, with its opening concealed behind the tapestry, up which the assassins of Rizzio had crept to their murderous work. She saw the little turret closet in which the poor queen was at supper with her ladies when the minstrel was surprised and massacred in her presence.
She went into the great picture gallery, where hung the portraits of the Scottish kings—each mother's royal son painted with a large curled proboscis—"a nose like a door-knocker," as someone described it. With one exception—that of James IV., the hapless hero of Flodden field. It was a full-length portrait, life-sized, and full of fire. Claudia stood and gazed upon it with delight. She was charmed by its beauty and by the lines that it brought distinctly to her recollection. Whether this was really a faithful portrait of King James or not, it certainly was an accurate likeness of the hero described by the poet:
"The monarch's form was middle size;
For feat of strength or exercise
Shaped in proportion fair;
And hazel was his eagle eye,
And auburn of the darkest dye
His short curled beard and hair.
Light was his footstep in the dance
And firm his stirrup in the lists;
And oh! he had that merry glance
That seldom lady's heart resists."
Yes, there he stood before her, pictured to the very life; all luminous with youth and love, chivalry and royalty; bending graciously from the canvas, smiling upon the spectator, and seeming about to step forward and take her hand.
Claudia turned away from this picture, feeling at the same moment both pleased and saddened. She had spent three hours dreaming amongst the ancient halls and bowers of Holyrood, and now she felt that it was time for her to return to the hotel, especially as the palace was beginning to be filled with the usual daily inflowing of sight-seers, and she felt somewhat fatigued and worried by the crowd.
So she went out and re-entered her cab, and was driven back to the hotel. Here an unexpected misfortune awaited her. As she left the cab she put her hand in her pocket to take out her purse and pay the cabman.
It was gone!
She turned sick with apprehension, for the loss of this purse, which contained all the money which she had brought with her, was, under the circumstances, a serious calamity.
She hurried again into the cab and searched it thoroughly; but no purse was to be found.
Then the truth burst upon her; she had been robbed of it by someone in the crowd of visitors in Holyrood Palace; her pocket had probably been picked while she stood in the picture gallery dreaming before the portrait of King James. How she reproached herself for her carelessness in taking so considerable an amount of money with her.
She was excessively agitated; but she managed to control herself sufficiently to speak calmly to the waiter, and say:
"Be good enough to pay this man and put the item in my bill"
The waiter obeyed and discharged the cab; for, of course, the name of Lady Vincent was as yet a passport to credit. Then she hurried to her room in a state of great agitation that nearly deprived her of all power to think or act. She rang the bell, which brought a waiter to her presence.
"I would like to see the landlord of this hotel," she said.
"I beg your pardon, my lady, but the proprietor lives out of town," returned the man.
"Then send the clerk of the house, or the head waiter, or whoever is in charge here."
"I will send the clerk, my lady," said the waiter, retiring.
The clerk soon made his appearance.
"Sir," said Claudia, "I sent for you to say, that while I was seeing Holyrood Palace, this forenoon, my pocket was picked of my purse, which contained a considerable amount of money; and I wish to ask you what steps I should take for its recovery?"
"Have you any idea of the sort of person that robbed you, my lady?"
"Not the slightest; all I know is that I had the purse with me when I paid the guide on entering the palace, and then I missed it when I reached home; and all I suspect is that it was purloined from me while I was in the picture gallery, standing before the portrait of James IV."
"In what form was the money, my lady?"
"Five and ten pound Bank of England notes."
"Were the numbers taken?"
"Oh, no; I never thought of taking the numbers."
"Then, my lady, I very much fear that it will be difficult or impossible to recover the money. However, I will send for a detective, and we will make an effort."
"Do, sir, if you please."
The clerk retired.
In a few moments Detective Ogilvie waited on Lady Vincent, and received her statement in regard to the robbery, promised to take prompt measures for the discovery of the thief, and retired.
Then suddenly Claudia remembered her letter to her father It was now near the close of the short winter day. Her interview with the detective had occupied her so long that she had barely time to scribble and send off the few urgent lines with which the reader is already acquainted. Then she dined and resigned herself to repose for the remainder of the evening.
While she sat in her easy-chair luxuriating in indolence and solitude before the glowing fire, the thought suddenly occurred to her that she was not really so badly off as the loss of her purse had first led her to suppose. She recollected that she had several costly rings upon her fingers; diamonds, rubies, and emeralds—the least valuable of which was worth more than the purse of money which had been stolen from her; and if she should be driven to extremity she could part with one of these rings; but then, on calm consideration of the subject, she had really no fears of being driven to extremity. She was Lady Vincent, and her credit was as yet intact before the world. This was a first-class hotel, and would supply her with all that she might require for the month that must intervene before her father's arrival.
She would spend this interval in seeing Edinboro' and its environs, and when her father should come she would persuade him to take her to the Continent, and afterwards carry her back to her native country, and to her childhood's home, to pass the remainder of her life in peace and quietness.
Dreaming over this humble prospect for the future, Claudia retired to bed, and slept well.
The next morning, as soon as she had breakfasted, she ordered a carriage from the stables connected with the hotel and drove to Edinboro' Castle, where she spent two or three hours among its royal halls and bowers, dreaming over the monuments of the past.
She lingered in the little cell-like stone chamber where Queen Mary had given birth to her son, afterwards James VI. She read the pathetic prayer carved on the stone tablet above the bedstead, and said to have been composed by the unhappy queen in behalf of her newborn infant.
In the great hall of the castle she paused long before a beautiful portrait of Mary Stuart, that was brought from Paris, where it had been painted, and which represented the young queen in her earliest womanhood, when she was the Dauphiness of France. And Claudia thought that this portrait was the only one, among all that she had ever seen of Mary Stuart, which came up to her ideal of that royal beauty, who was even more a queen of hearts than of kingdoms.
At length, weary of sight-seeing, she re-entered her carriage and returned home. While she was in her bedchamber taking off her bonnet, a card was brought to her.
"This must be a mistake—this cannot be for me; I have no acquaintances in the town," she said, without taking the trouble to glance at the card.
"I beg your ladyship's pardon, but the countess inquired particularly for Lady Vincent," replied the waiter who had brought the card.
"The countess?" repeated Claudia, and she took it up and read the lightly penciled name:
"Berenice, Countess of Hurstmonceux."
"Say to Lady Hurstmonceux that I will be with her in a few minutes," said Claudia.
"'Berenice, Countess of Hurstmonceux,'" she repeated when the man had retired; "that is the widow of the late earl, and the forsaken wife of Herman Brudenell. What on earth brings her here? And how did she know of my presence in the city, and even in this house? However, I shall know soon, I suppose."
And so saying, Claudia made a few changes in her toilet, and went into the parlor.
Standing, looking from the window, was a lady dressed in a black velvet bonnet and plumes, a black silk gown, and a large sable cloak and muff.
As Claudia entered, this lady turned around and lifted her veil, revealing a beautiful, pale face, with large, deep-fringed, mournful dark eyes, and soft, rippling, jet-black hair. At the first glance Claudia was touched by the pensive beauty of that lovely face.
Yes! at the age of forty-five the Countess of Hurstmonceux was still beautiful. She had passed a serene life, free alike from carking cares and fashionable excesses, and so her beauty had been well preserved. It would have taken a keen observer to have detected the few wrinkles that had gathered in the corners of her fine eyes and plump lips, or to have found out the still fewer silver threads that lay hidden here and there among her dark tresses.
Claudia advanced to greet her, holding out her hand, and saying:
"The Countess of Hurstmonceux, I presume?"
"Yes," replied the visitor, with a sweet smile.
"I am Lady Vincent; and very happy to see you. Pray be seated," said
Claudia, drawing forward a chair for her visitor.
"My dear Lady Vincent, I only learned this morning of your arrival in town, and presuming upon my slight connection with the family of the present Earl of Hurstmonceux, I have ventured to call on you and claim a sort of relationship," said Berenice kindly.
"Your ladyship is very good, and I am very glad to see you," said Claudia cordially. Then suddenly recollecting her own cruel position, and feeling too proud as well as too honest to appear under false colors, she blushed, and said:
"I cannot think how your ladyship could know that I was here; but I am sure that when you did me this honor of calling, you did not know the circumstances under which I left Castle Cragg."
A tide of crimson swept over the pale face of Berenice; it arose for
Claudia, not for herself, and she replied:
"My dear, wronged lady, I know it all."
"You know all—all that they allege against me, and you call me wronged?" exclaimed Claudia, in pleased surprise.
"I know all that they allege against you, and I believe you to be wronged. Therefore, my dear, I have come to-day to offer you all the service in my power," said Berenice sweetly.
Claudia suddenly caught her hand and clasped it fervently.
"And now, my dear Lady Vincent, will you permit me to explain myself and inform you how I became acquainted with the circumstances of your departure from Castle Cragg, and your arrival at this house?" inquired Berenice.
"Oh, do! do!" replied Claudia.
"You must know, then, that a few of my old domestics, who served the late earl and myself while we lived at Castle Cragg, still remain there in the service of the present earl's family, which is always represented at the castle by Lord Vincent. Among them there are two who, it appears, became very much attached to your ladyship. I allude to the housekeeper, Jean Murdock, and the major-domo, Cuthbert Allan."
"Yes, they were very kind; but, after all, it was old Cuthbert who sent that note to Lord Vincent, which brought him from the play at midnight to burst into my room and find his wretched valet hidden there," replied Claudia gravely.
"Yes; Cuthbert saw the valet steal into your room and sent word to his master, as in duty bound. But, after witnessing the scene of his discovery, Cuthbert's mind instantly cleared your ladyship of suspicion and rushed to the conclusion that the miserable valet concealed himself in your boudoir unknown to you and for the purpose of robbery. I, for my part, believe he was placed there with the connivance of Lord Vincent, and that old Cuthbert was made to play a blind part in that conspiracy."
"I knew, of course, that it was a conspiracy, but really wondered to find the honest old man in it."
"He was a blind tool in their hands. But I was about to tell you how the facts of your departure from the castle and your arrival in this hotel came to my knowledge. In brief, I received a letter from old Cuthbert this morning, in which he related the whole history of the affair, as it was known to him. He expressed great sorrow for the part he had been obliged to bear in the business, and the most respectful sympathy for your ladyship. He said his 'heart was sair for the bonnie leddy sae far frae a' her friends and living her lane in Edinboro' toun.' And he begged me to find you out and protect you. To this letter was added a postscript by Jean Murdock. It was a warm, humble, respectful encomium upon your ladyship, in which she joined her prayers to those of Cuthbert that I would seek you out and succor you."
As Berenice spoke, blushes dyed the cheeks of Claudia, and tears dropped from her eyes. She was softened by the kindness of those two old people, and their patronage humiliated her.
Something of the nature of her emotions the countess must have divined, for she took the hand of Claudia and said:
"Believe me, dear Lady Vincent, I did not need urging to come to you. I needed only to know that you were in town and alone. As soon as I read the letters I sent for the morning paper to look for the arrivals at the various hotels, to see if I could find your name among them. I could not, and so I was about to lay aside the paper and send for the one of the day before, when my eye happened to light on a paragraph in which I found your name. It was the robbery of your purse at Holyrood Palace. There I learned your address. And I came away here immediately."
Claudia's fingers tightened on the hand of the countess which she still retained in hers.
"How much I thank you, Lady Hurstmonceux, you can never know; because you have never felt what it is to be a stranger in a foreign country, with your fame traduced and not one friend to stand by your side and sustain you," she said.
Again that crimson tide swept over the pale face of Berenice; but this time it was for herself, and she answered:
"Oh, yes, yes! I have known just that. Ten years in a foreign country, forsaken, shunned, traduced, without one friend to speak comfort to an almost breaking heart—It is past. I have overlived it. The God of my fathers has sustained me. Let us speak no more of it." And crimson as she had been for a moment she was as pale as marble now.
Claudia laid her hand caressingly upon the shoulder of Berenice and looked in her face with that mute sympathy which is more effective than eloquent words. Something, indeed, she had heard of this before, but the rumor had left no impression on her mind; though she blamed herself now for the momentary forgetfulness.
"Let us speak of yourself and your plans for the future," said the countess.
"My plans are simple enough. I have written to my father. I shall remain here until his arrival," said Claudia.
There was a pause between them for a few minutes, during which the countess seemed in deep thought, and then this still beautiful woman, smiling, said:
"I am old enough to be your mother, Lady Vincent, and in the absence of your father, I hope you will trust yourself to my guardianship. It is not well, under present circumstances, that you should remain alone at a public hotel. Come with me and be my guest at Cameron Court. It is a pretty place, near Roslyn Castle, and despite all the evil in the hearts of men, I think I can make your visit there pleasant and interesting."
Claudia burst into tears; the proud Claudia was softened, almost humbled by this unexpected kindness.
"God bless you!" was all that she could say. "I will gladly go."
"I am your mother, in the meantime, Claudia, you know," said Lady
Hurstmonceux, touching the bell.
"You are my guardian angel!" sobbed Claudia.
"Lady Vincent's bill, if you please," said the countess to the waiter who answered the bell, and who immediately bowed and disappeared.
But Claudia grasped the arm of the countess and exclaimed in alarm:
"I had forgotten. I cannot leave the hotel yet, because I cannot pay the bill. My lost purse contained all the money that I brought from Castle Cragg." "What of that? I am your mother, Claudia, until you hear from your father; and your banker until you recover your money. Now, my dear, go put on your bonnet, while I settle with the waiter. My carriage is at the door, and we will go at once. I will send my own maid in a fly to pack up your effects and bring them after us."
"How much my father will thank and bless you!" said Claudia, as she left the room to prepare herself.
Lady Hurstmonceux paid the bill, and left half a sovereign in the hands of the chambermaid, bidding her take care of Lady Vincent's effects until they should be sent for.
And when Claudia came out, equipped for her ride, they went below stairs.
A handsome brougham, painted dark green, drawn by fine gray horses, with silver mountings on their harness and with a coachman and footman in gray-and-green livery stood before the door.
And the countess and her protegee entered it and were driven towards the Cameron Court.