The Keswick Cooper Conspiracy

The Keswick Copper Conspiracy

Author’s Note: The case that follows was never intended for publication. Indeed, owing to the political sensitivities involved and certain confidential communications from Her Majesty’s government, I have long refrained from including it among my public accounts of Mr. Sherlock Holmes’s work. I record it here now only as a matter of private documentation—lest memory fade and the details be lost entirely. Whether it shall ever be read beyond these pages, I cannot say.

Part I: The Summons from the North

It was a peculiar letter that found its way to Baker Street on a chill December morning—one bearing the red seal of the Royal crest upon heavy ivory paper. Holmes read it in silence, holding it by the corners as though its contents might ignite. When at last he passed it to me, his expression was inscrutable.

We departed for Keswick the following afternoon, the train winding northward through the Lakeland valleys, its iron wheels echoing against craggy slopes half-shrouded in mist. I unfolded the letter once more, eyeing the Queen’s own handwriting as Holmes stared through the frosted window, watching stone walls and russet bracken blur into streaks of fading autumn.

“I must say,” I ventured, adjusting my scarf against the chill draught, “I never imagined Her Majesty would concern herself with a matter as provincial as mineral extraction.”

Holmes gave no reply at first. His fingers tapped a subtle rhythm on the armrest—always a sign of deep thought. At length he said, “Provincial only in location, my dear Watson. The graphite drawn from these hills has served her majesties cannon, the copper her coinage alike. In times of conflict, such materials become strategic—particularly when continental tensions simmer.”

I glanced down at the phrasing in the Queen’s missive. “‘Our northern sentinels stand exposed beneath foreign frost,’” I read aloud. “A poet’s flourish—or a warning?”

Holmes turned from the window, his eyes cool and grey. “A carefully constructed one. Note her phrasing, not her penmanship.”

“And the Russians?” I asked. “Is that your suspicion?”

“I suspect human greed,” he replied, “which often wears a foreign accent when it suits the narrative.”

For a while we travelled in silence, the rattle of the train and the cry of a heron overhead the only accompaniment to our thoughts. I found myself wondering whether Her Majesty truly understood the danger to which she had consigned us.

“I wonder,” I murmured, “if she considered the risks.”

Holmes allowed a rare smile. “I rather hope she has.”

We arrived at Keswick Station in the final breath of afternoon. The town greeted us with the scent of pine, smoke, and fresh varnish. The newly-built Keswick Hotel, our intended lodgings, stood with unapologetic grandeur at the edge of the lake, its windows catching the last fire of the setting sun.

Inside, the bar was warm and inviting. Holmes declined refreshment and vanished almost at once to speak with the stationmaster. I settled near the hearth with a brandy, surveying the room and its guests through the lens of quiet curiosity.

At the far end of the lounge, a group of ladies were deep in animated discussion. Their conversation carried across the polished floorboards, and at the centre stood a tall woman dressed in green—a walking dress of fine cut and impeccable taste. There was something arresting about her bearing: she spoke of the Borrowdale mines with the clarity of a scholar and the elegance of a hostess.

But the moment was interrupted as one of her companions, a slight young woman in lace, suddenly turned pale and collapsed in a flutter of silk.

I was on my feet instantly. “Make room, please,” I said, reaching her side.

A quick check of the pulse, the breathing, the complexion—yes, a fainting spell, nothing more.

“She’ll be right as rain with a little air and a sip of water,” I assured them.

The tall woman approached. Her tone was calm and composed. “You’re a doctor, sir?”

“Dr. John Watson,” I said, standing. “I’ve only just arrived.”

“Then allow me to thank you. I am Lady Cordelia Derwent, of Derwent Hall. These young ladies are my guests for the season, and I fear Miss Pritchard is unused to a boned corset—or the sherry.”

“A common affliction in both cases,” I replied, and she smiled.

“You must join me for tea tomorrow,” she said. “I host a small salon on local history—perhaps you’d find it diverting. I’ve uncovered some rather curious documents about the wad mines. You may find them… enlightening.”

“I’d be delighted,” I said, and I meant it.

 

Part II: Of Salons, Symbols, and the Shadows of Borrowdale

The following morning, I descended to the hotel’s breakfast room with no sign of Holmes. The concierge informed me, with a vaguely apologetic shrug, that my companion had departed earlier for unspecified errands. I took my meal in solitude, passing the time with The Times and a growing curiosity about Lady Derwent’s promised “enlightening” documents.

Leaving word for Holmes I departed for Derwent Hall. She received me in the salon just after eleven—a fine, book-lined chamber with tall windows that framed the winter gardens below. Lady Derwent stood at its centre, her green dress catching the morning light like a sprig of early spring among stone and frost. She greeted me warmly and introduced her guests: a local antiquarian with wild white eyebrows, a geologist with trousers dusted in shale, and a young artist who hardly looked up from her furious sketching.

Our conversation turned quickly to the Borrowdale wad mines—graphite, to the uninitiated—and it was clear that Lady Derwent knew her subject with the confidence of a woman accustomed to libraries, not merely leisure. At last, she presented a bundle of documents bound with ribbon and a gleam of anticipation.

“These,” she said, “detail the operations of the earliest mines, but I confess they’ve left me with more questions than answers. There’s a particular mark repeated in the margins—here, see for yourself.”

I untied the ribbon and unfolded the top page, scanning the faded script. There it was—a circle bisected by a vertical line, stamped like a seal in the corners.

“Curious,” I murmured. “I feel I’ve seen this before.”

Lady Derwent watched me closely. “It appears throughout the bundle, but I’ve yet to find its meaning.”

“I’ll show these to Holmes,” I said. “If anyone can unearth its significance—”

A familiar silhouette darkened the salon doorway. Holmes had entered without introduction, his coat still dusted with travel and his gaze already fixed on the papers in my hand. He stepped forward with that quiet force he so often employed, as though simply appearing had answered the unspoken question.

“Ah, Watson,” he said, “you seem to have discovered a vein of your own.”

“Holmes,” I replied with a nod, rising to greet him. “Your timing, as ever, is impeccable.”

He turned slightly, offering a courteous inclination of the head. “Lady Derwent, I presume?”

She regarded him with interest, entirely unruffled. “Indeed. And you are?”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Mr. Holmes,” she said, her gaze alighting on him with amused interest, “you have the look of a man recently on the stage. A touch of glue still clings beneath your chin, and is that red hair on your collar? Were you an Irishman or Scotsman on stage last night?”

Holmes offered one of his quiet smiles but said nothing. I suppressed a grin, recalling the faint scent of miner’s dust and the rough dialect he’d rehearsed beside the hearth just two nights prior.

Holmes then turned the game with disarming ease.

“Your work with the Workhouse Visiting Association is commendable,” he said.

Lady Derwent raised a brow. “You know of my involvement?”

“Observation, Lady Derwent. Your hem is damp but not muddy—meaning you walked only a short distance this morning. Your gloves carry chalk dust, but you are no teacher. The workhouse stands only two streets away. If you are visiting the workhouse and teaching children there then, I deduce you are a member of the WVA.”

Her expression flickered—surprise, then something not unlike admiration. “You are as perceptive Mr. Holmes.”

“There is much to perceive in this room,” he replied. “May I?”

With a nod from her, Holmes took the documents and studied the symbol with swift precision. “Seventeenth-century mining cipher. Used to mark claims of unusual value or contested boundaries. This one denotes priority—first right of excavation.”

“You believe it refers to a specific vein?” I asked.

“Quite possibly,” he said. “These symbols were buried as deliberately as the ore itself. Lady Derwent, do you possess further documentation? I believe there may be a pattern.”

She called for a footman and requested the remainder of her records. As we waited, Holmes and Lady Derwent spoke easily—two minds drawing sparks across historical faultlines. I was struck once again by her poise: she did not merely match Holmes; she parried him with charm and wit.

When the additional bundles arrived, Holmes laid them out with the care of an archivist, tracing paper and ink, whispering calculations beneath his breath.

“Elterwater and Grizedale,” he said suddenly. “Their dispute over Borrowdale’s eastern vein—intense, protracted, and, if I am not mistaken…”

I leaned in. “Elterwater? That name appears in this morning’s Times. Look here—‘Mr. Elterwater, local industrialist, killed in an accident at Borrowdale Mine.’”

Holmes’s expression darkened. He took the paper from me and scanned the article.

“Interesting,” he said at last.

“You think it more than an accident?” I asked.

Holmes didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he folded the paper and set it aside. “We must tread carefully, Watson. There are questions that need answering, and I suspect the answers will not be easily found.”

 

Part III: Carts, Ashes, and the Dead Man’s Ledger

The dogcart bore us south from Keswick beneath a sky of dull pewter. Holmes sat forward, his gaze fixed ahead as the lake unfurled beside us, cold and silver in the morning light. Catbells loomed across the water, its flanks bare and dusted with the ghost of yesterday’s snow. The horse’s hooves struck sharp notes on the frost-hardened road.

“You seem to know precisely where we’re going,” I remarked, watching his profile.

He gave no answer, but the faintest flicker of amusement stirred his mouth. I knew that look—he had been here before, no doubt in one of his many disguises. Probably the Irish miner Lady Derwent had alluded to.

We soon turned off the main road and descended into the valley of Borrowdale. There, tucked into the hillside, stood the remnants of the Elterwater claim— looming stone sheds, rusted rail tracks, and yawning black mine mouths that breathed cold into the air.

A man stepped forward from one of the sheds—tall, weathered, with streaks of soot across his waistcoat.

“Gentlemen,” he said, removing his cap, “I’m Foreman Liddell. How may a help you, we are closed today, horrible accident yesterday.”

“Good Afternoon,” Holmes started, “I am Mr. Holmes, and this is my college Dr. Watson. It is that unfortunate occurrence that brings us here, we would be grateful if we could see where it happened.”

“We’re honoured to have you here, Mr Holmes, though I wish it were under better circumstances. I am often reading the stories of your investigation; I never thought to meet you up here. Do you suspect foul play.”

“I suspect many things,” Holmes replied. “But let us see the scene first.”

Liddell led us to a siding where two iron carts stood bristling with raw graphite. Their wheels were sunk slightly into the gravel. He pointed to the space between them.

“Poor Mr. Elterwater was caught right there. Crushed. We were preparing a shipment for Low Moor—cannonball castings mostly.”

Holmes crouched, his gaze sliding across the wheel tracks, the brake levers, the faint scuffs along a stone wall.

“Was Elterwater in the habit of inspecting shipments himself?” Holmes asked.

“Only recently. Said he had some concerns after reviewing the ledgers.”

Holmes nodded absently, then reached beneath the rear cart. He withdrew a pinch of powder and brought it to his nose.

“Ash,” he said quietly.

“From a fire?” I asked.

“No. Cigar ash. And here—” he stepped a few paces to a stack of timber—“a second deposit.”

I leaned closer. “Two men?”

“At least. And not local. This blend—dark, oily, with a peppery scent. Rolled in Moscow. Smoked by certain military officers and… others.”

A shiver slid down my spine. “You believe they killed him?”

“I believe,” Holmes said, standing, “that Mr. Elterwater was lured here. One cart brake loosened, the other left unsecured. When he stepped between them…”

“They released the brake,” I finished grimly.

Holmes nodded. “And watched from the shadows, smoking calmly as the deed was done.”

We departed shortly after, Holmes silent and thoughtful as the cart clattered back toward town. The mist had lifted, but snow flurried listlessly from a pale sky, catching in my moustache and swirling past the horse’s flanks.

As we rounded the bend at the head of the lake, Keswick came into view—its streets alive with activity at this late hour of the afternoon. The driver slowed the cart, steering carefully past workers erecting wooden booths and stringing bunting across the facades of market buildings.

“Bit of a detour, gentlemen,” our driver called over his shoulder. “Preparin’ for tomorrow’s festivities—music, dancing, cakes, pies, and chestnuts roasting in every corner. You’d be fools to miss it.”

 “Sounds delightful.” I said. Holmes remained silent, lost in his thoughts.

He made straight for the hotel’s writing desk, dashed off two telegrams, and ordered brandy without ceremony. We settled by the fire, the weight of what we’d seen still clinging to us like smoke.

 

Part IV: Whispers Beneath the Holly and Frost

The following morning dawned brittle and grey, the rooftops glazed in hoarfrost and the sky the colour of pewter. I found no trace of Holmes in the breakfast room, nor had the concierge seen him since the previous evening. No note, no message—just the empty chair opposite mine and a pot of coffee.

I spent the better part of an hour with the newspapers, my gaze lingering on a headline near the fold: Russian Troops Mass at Afghan Border—Tensions Near Panjdeh. The name stirred a memory—dust, pain, and the pop of jezails on scorched air. I closed the paper and rose, shaking off the past.

Outside, Keswick had transformed overnight. The main street thrummed with activity: stalls festooned with ribbon, holly and pine, the air rich with chestnuts and pastry. Keswick’s Operatic Society sang carols beneath the town hall balcony, and everywhere the scrape of fiddles, the ring of coin, the sharp cry of vendors.

I wandered the lanes, drawn more by mood than destination, until I turned into Pack Horse Court. The crowd thinned, and silence fell like a muffler. Here, the air was colder, the stones slick.

It was there I heard them.

Three men, voices low, stood clustered near a narrow alley. I stepped toward a shop window, feigning interest in a pyramid of Wensleydale, and tilted my head just enough to catch a few words.

They spoke Russian—of that I was certain. I caught груз, поезд, ночь—cargo, train, night. Plans, not yet executed. Their coats were heavy, their posture cautious.

One looked up. Our eyes met—briefly, but long enough.

The trio dissolved like shadows, dispersing into the fair crowd with trained precision. I stood still for several moments, heart thudding, then turned for the hotel. Holmes needed to know.

Back in the warmth of the Keswick Hotel, I found no sign of him. The concierge had no message. But then, as I turned toward the stairs, the clerk called out.

“Dr. Watson—a parcel arrived for Mr. Holmes. Marked Bradford.”

He handed over a flat brown package bearing the seal of Low Moor Iron Works.

“I’ll see that he receives it,” I said.

Outside, the bustle swelled. I was halfway to the entrance when a familiar voice sounded from behind.

“Ah—there you are, Watson. No time for sugared almonds, I’m afraid. Her Majesty’s empire is under threat.”

I turned. Holmes stood at the foot of the staircase, hair windblown, eyes gleaming. He was already moving.

“The train to Cockermouth leaves in ten minutes,” he said.

“But Holmes, the fair, the Russians—”

“All in good time. Come.”

We boarded the train in a rush. Holmes sat opposite me as the carriages pulled away, the hills giving way to flatter lands strung with hedgerows touched by frost.

“Tell me, John—do you recall the scuff marks on the wall at the mine?” he asked.

“Scuff marks? Holmes, it’s a mine. Everything’s scuffed.”

Holmes turned to me, one eyebrow raised. “You know my methods John. What did you see?”

“The whole side of the wall, Holmes, was scuffed from ground to roof.”

“Exactly John. They reached thirty feet above ground—evidence of heavy crates, stacked high and never recorded in any ledgers. Borrowdale sends far more ore than Low Moor receives. The Queen’s concern was not misplaced. Production has dropped because the raw material graphite is being diverted”

“Diverted? But to where?”, I asked.

“That, my dear Watson, is what I intend to find out. The answer may lie in your coat pocket.”

I blinked. “The parcel. Of course.”

Holmes tore the seal and scanned the manifest inside. A slow, satisfied smile curved his mouth.

“That confirms it”, he said pulling folded page from his pocket ”the dates match this shipping ledger from The Cockermouth and Workington Railway Company, I received this return telegram this morning. Now we follow the missing mineral to its hiding place.”

 

 

Part V: Smoke in the Rafters, Stones in the Crate

Cockermouth greeted us with a different kind of bustle—no music here, no ribbons or roasted chestnuts. The station yard clattered with hooves and clanking carts, the scent of grain and livestock thick in the air. Barley sacks lined the platform. Cattle grumbled in their pens. And beyond it all, the River Cocker cut a dark swath through the frozen morning.

Holmes stepped lightly from the carriage and made for a low warehouse at the river’s edge—soot-streaked and unassuming, its roof grey with age.

“There,” he said simply.

We crossed the yard, the frosty gravel crunching beneath our boots. The main doors were sealed with an iron padlock. Holmes said nothing, merely circled the structure and found a smaller side door. He examined it, then retrieved a length of discarded timber from nearby crates.

“What are you—” I began, but he was already at work.

Holmes wedged the board into the doorframe and applied pressure. With a groan of old wood and a decisive snap, the latch gave way. He lifted the door just enough to slip his hand beneath and unseat the bolt from within.

“Necessity,” he said mildly, “is the mother of improvisation.”

Inside, the warehouse lay steeped in dust and gloom. Narrow shafts of light slipped through cobwebbed windows, illuminating stacked crates, pulley chains, and the ragged echoes of recent movement. I found an oil lamp near the door, lit it, and its glow cast the scene in gold and shadow.

Holmes moved ahead silently, pistol drawn. The air smelled of rusted iron, timber, and something sharper—minerals, perhaps. We moved among the crates, most stamped with the sigil of the Barrowdale mine.

Holmes prised one open. Inside: graphite. Black, glassy stones catching the lamplight like obsidian.

“There must be a year’s supply here,” I whispered.

“Closer to two,” he replied. “Our traitor has been stockpiling for some time.”

A second crate bore the seal of a Keswick smelter. I opened it to find copper ingots. Holmes ran a gloved finger across one of the bars.

“High grade,” he said. “this should be in the queens mint but is likely bound for abroad. Russia, perhaps.”

I let out a breath. “This is the Crown’s lost ore, already smelted.”

Holmes nodded. “And now that we’ve found it, we must prevent it from ever reaching enemy hands.”

That was when we heard it.

Glass shattered—a sharp, cruel sound that echoed through the rafters. Holmes extinguished the lamp at once, plunging us into shadow.

“Down,” he hissed.

We crouched behind a stack of crates, the damp stone floor cold against our legs. Footsteps scraped nearby—boots, slow and deliberate.

Voices followed.

“You paid Grizedale to smuggle in your men and your explosives,” snarled one, thick with a London accent. “But while you lot played revolution, he’s been stockpiling minerals. Cannon, coin—he’s cornering the bloody market. The British war machine won’t stall without a price.”

Another voice—slower, clipped with a Russian accent—replied coolly. “You think we will let Viscount Grisedale keep his profits? This betrayal cannot stand. Either the warehouse is emptied into Motherland hands—or no one finds it at all.”

A silence fell, heavy as coal dust. Then the crunch as boots crushed broken. The intruders had come and gone, but the echo of their treachery remained.

Only after long minutes did Holmes stir. He pocketed his pistol, his voice low and urgent.

“So now we know—Grisedale has crossed more than the Queen. And others watch this cache just as closely.”

He stood, brushing dust from his coat. “Come, John. The hoard is found. The trap must be set.”

 

Part VI: The Villain

Holmes and I sat opposite one another in the first-class carriage as the train wound its way back toward Keswick. The rhythm of the wheels against the rails was steady and insistent, an unbroken beat beneath the weight of our thoughts.

Holmes tapped a single finger against the armrest—a sure sign of deep contemplation—then spoke without preamble.

“Viscount Grisdale,” he began, eyes fixed on the passing landscape, “has worked closely with the Bank of England and Parliament, his primary role being the expansion of mining production across Cumbria. He was considered an ideal candidate—his own land lacking in mineral wealth, ensuring he remained neutral in his dealings with industrial interests. A fair choice, it seemed.”

He exhaled through his nose, barely concealing his disdain. “Gladstone, in his careful selection, has mistakenly picked a crook. And now, we know—a traitor.”

I sat forward, listening intently.

“Grisdale has been diverting copper and graphite in vast quantities. I would wager silver as well,” Holmes continued. “These materials, critical to both war and economy, have not simply vanished. They have been stockpiled in Cockermouth under his careful watch. But our Russian acquaintances have revealed yet another layer to the scheme—he has smuggled in spies. And explosives.”

I felt my breath catch. “Explosives?”

Holmes nodded. “That can only mean one thing, Watson. He intends to profit greatly when the Russians blow key mines, critical bridges—perhaps both.”

“My word, Holmes,” I murmured, gripping the armrest, “is this linked to The Great Game? To Russia’s movement on the Afghan border?”

Holmes finally turned his gaze to me, his expression unreadable yet charged with certainty.

“The coincidence, my friend, is far too great.”

Holmes leaned back against the cushions of the railway carriage, his fingers steepled and his gaze trained not on the passing countryside, but on the knot he now pulled tight.

“Do you recall,” he said quietly, “the documents Lady Derwent allowed me to examine? Among the disputed claims for the old wad mines, there was a second name besides Elterwater.”

“Grisedale,” I said at once.

“Precisely. That would have been Viscount Grisedale’s great-great-great-grandfather. And it seems our present Viscount bears more than the name—he bears the grudge. His ancestor attempted to falsify ownership records to claim the richest vein in Borrowdale. It failed, and the true records were hidden. Full credit to Lady Cordelia Derwent for uncovering them.”

He turned to me then, eyes sharp. “Watson, if we are to stop the intended explosions in the mines of

Cumbria, we will need the assistance of the Derwent estate. I want you to return to Lady Derwent immediately. Send runners to every mine in the Borrowdale vale. We’re searching for crates labelled Aberdeen Lamp Oil. Inside—dynamite.”

“Dynamite?” I repeated.

“There were six shipments,” he said. “Three consigned to the railways, three to the mines.”

“But—Holmes, how could you possibly know this?”

He allowed himself the faintest smile. “Because I asked the Russian spies myself. This morning. You saw me—I looked directly at you while you were admiring the cheese. They took me for another agent, confirming readiness. The newspaper report about troop movements near Panjdeh convinced them the signal had been sent. They expected contact, not scrutiny. They confirmed six shipments. Add to that the conversation we overheard regarding explosives, and the implication is clear. We are dealing with dynamite—and long fuses.”

I stared at him, torn between disbelief and reluctant admiration. “You extraordinary rogue.

He rose as the train began to slow for the Keswick approach. “I’ll telegram London and have troops investigate the railway lines. There are six bridges that might be targets—but I believe I know the three they’ll strike first.”

 

Part VII: Race with Fire

No sooner had our train hissed to a halt beneath the canopy at Keswick Station than Holmes departed at a determined clip, bound for the telegraph office to coordinate the search of the railway lines. I, meanwhile, hailed the first hansom cab I could find and urged the driver to make for Derwent Hall at once.

The journey, though swift, felt endless. Each twist in the road, each hoofbeat on the frost-bitten lane, carried with it visions of collapse—bridges shattered, mines aflame, livelihoods buried beneath rock and ruin. If those charges detonated, we would not merely lose ore; we would lose entire communities—cut off from the south, and by extension the south would be cut off from Scotland.

At last, the tall wrought-iron gates of Derwent Hall loomed ahead. As we passed through, I spotted Lady Cordelia striding briskly across the garden, her dark green skirts trailing behind her like banners. At her side trotted a determined beagle—eyes sharp, tail high.

“Stop here!” I called, throwing open the cab door before the wheels had ceased turning.

I raced across the grass. “Lady Cordelia!” I called out, breath already short. “We’ve need of your help—urgent need.”

She turned instantly, her poise undiminished. “Dr. Watson?”

“There are three mines in danger. Holmes believes the explosives are packed in crates labelled Aberdeen Lamp Oil, or may already be affixed to the beams themselves. We must alert the miners immediately.”

She asked no questions, issued no protests—only turned to her gardener, who had approached upon hearing the commotion. “Call the estate staff. Send riders to every mine in Borrowdale—Grisedale, Honister, Seathwaite. Tell them what Dr. Watson has told me. They are to halt work and begin searching. No delay.”

Within moments, grooms and footmen were galloping from the grounds. She turned back to me. “We’ll take my cart to Elterwater. Come.”

“Come Copper.” She shouted. Her beagle leapt into the rear dog box with an enthusiasm that felt reassuring in its simplicity.

“Copper? A real Keswick mining name.” I asked, as he wagged his approval.

She laughed, climbing up beside me. “Short for Copernicus—the first to say the earth moves round the sun. I like to think he’d admire our hound’s enthusiasm for the cosmos.”

I laughed aloud. “Holmes would not. He once insisted it was irrelevant to his work and promptly forgot it after reading it once.”

“Then we’ll say nothing,” she replied with a grin, snapping the reins.

We arrived at the Elterwater mine as the sun dipped low behind the peaks. A handful of wary miners met us, already mid-search. At the head of the adit—where the cold air issued like a breath from the earth—we found an empty crate labelled Aberdeen Lamp Oil, broken and discarded.

I turned to go in, but Cordelia stepped beside me with a lantern. “You’re not going in there alone, Doctor.”

I offered a protest, but she was already striding forward.

Fifty yards in, the tunnel closed around us. The only light was that of her lamp—dancing on damp stone and timber beams.

Then—fzzzzzzzzt.

A fizzing sound, unmistakable and sudden.

“Fuse!” I shouted, spinning around. There—a flicker of bright red a few yards ahead.

I ran, ducking beneath a strut, boots echoing on the stone floor. The light danced ahead as I reached the fuse—mere inches left before it disappeared into a bundle of dynamite.

I dove, fingers closing around the sparking cord. Smoke curled, acrid and accusing, into the air as I tore the fuse free. My palm stung bitterly, the burn already rising red beneath the soot.

Cordelia reached me seconds later, her lantern casting gold against the damp stone.

“Are you—?”

“Quite,” I said, catching my breath. “Burned, perhaps. Alive, unquestionably.”

She exhaled, tension flickering from her shoulders. “You did it. We did it.”

We made our way back toward the entrance, footsteps echoing along timber and stone. As the daylight reappeared ahead of us—grey but welcome—we spotted Copper seated primly just outside the mine mouth, as though he’d been posted there on official business.

He barked once when he saw us, not frantic but expectant, tail tapping a rhythm on the frozen earth.

“See,” Cordelia said, smiling, “he has no doubt we’d succeed.”

“Good instincts,” I murmured, flexing my sore fingers.

Back at the mine entrance, Foreman Liddell had arranged a simple respite—a kettle bubbling atop a makeshift brazier, tin mugs lined in a neat row. He lifted one, offering it to Lady Cordelia with a wry smile.

“Apologies for the tin, ma’am,” he said. “But this is a mine.”

Cordelia accepted it without hesitation. “Tin is perfectly serviceable,” she replied, producing a small cloth bag from the dog cart and extracting a handful of biscuits. She handed one to Liddell, who took it with a grateful nod.

I flexed my fingers, the sting of the fuse still pulsing faintly in my palm. Instinctively, I reached for the offered mug with my uninjured hand, the warmth settling against my knuckles instead of the burn.

Copper sat near the brazier, watching us with interest but keeping his nose respectfully clear of the flames. We sipped in silence, letting the stillness settle around us like the low mist over the fells.

Then—hoofbeats.

The first rider crested the rise, slowing his mount with a sharp pull. His boots hit the ground in one fluid motion.

“Honister clear,” he reported. “One crate found. Locked safely in the powder room.”

Cordelia nodded crisply and handed him another biscuit.

A short while later, another rider approached from the north. “Seathwaite safe,” he called as he dismounted. “Fuse was already tied—but not struck.”

Cordelia turned to me, direct, unflinching. “The worst is behind us.”

I exhaled, glancing at my half-empty tin mug. “Let’s hope Holmes can say the same,” I murmured, handing Copper the last of my biscuit.

The beagle accepted it with practiced grace, tail wagging once in approval.

We climbed into the cart once more. Cordelia let the reins out, and Copper took his place, nose to the wind, tail wagging with triumph.

The winter wind raced past as we made for Keswick, the hills behind us quiet once more.

 

Part VIII: The Prize Beneath the Raffle Tent

We found Holmes strolling casually through the Keswick fayre, gloved hands behind his back, inspecting a tray of sugar-dusted pastries as though nothing more serious than indigestion threatened the realm.

“Ah,” he said as we approached, “Lady Cordelia. Dr. Watson. You appear none the worse for soot and sabotage.”

“And you’re awfully sanguine for a man tracking explosives,” I replied.

“I find a well-baked apple tart remarkably settling,” he said, then turned serious. “Two Russians were arrested some twenty miles east of here. They were spotted skulking near a rail bridge. The constable who tried to stop them received a black eye for his trouble, but the local railway crew arrived in short order and administered what you might call a robust reply. They are now, quite securely, in custody.”

“And the bombs?”

“Railway teams are working south along both lines. The crates should be found within the hour, I expect.”

“And the Viscount and his go-between, man with the London accent?” I asked.

Holmes’s expression flickered just slightly—something between satisfaction and anticipation.

“The Viscount has already been taken at his club in Pall Mall,” he said. “Scotland Yard was informed an hour ago, and Her Majesty has been briefed. But one thread remains—Grisedale’s go-between. The gentleman we heard speaking with the Russian in the warehouse.”

“And what’s your plan?”

Holmes smiled, eyes already glinting toward the main stage. “Let’s not spoil the mood just yet. The raffle is about to be drawn. I have a ticket, as it happens. Let’s get closer.”

We moved through the cheerful throng, music playing from a brass band farther down the high street. Evening lamps glowed golden, and stallholders made last-minute pleas to passing families. Laughter rippled through the crowd like wind over water, the entire town blithely unaware of the conspiracy narrowly averted.

The mayor stepped to the centre of the stage, clearing his throat and tapping a silver bell. One by one, the prizes were drawn: a hamper, a carved stick, a cheese shop voucher. Then the drum rolled, and the first prize—a handsome timepiece in a velvet case—was announced.

As the number was called, Holmes’s hand slid into his pocket. “Be ready, Watson.”

A man stepped forward, waving his ticket. He accepted the mayor’s congratulations, then responded, in a clear London accent, “Much obliged, sir.”

Holmes turned to me. “Shall we?”

We mounted the stage. The traitor’s eyes widened as recognition dawned—then, with desperate calculation, he shoved the mayor toward us. The poor man stumbled down the steps, knocking over a display of pickled onions. The traitor vaulted from the rear of the stage and tore off through the fair.

We gave chase, dashing through startled crowds and overturned stalls. Near the lake’s edge, he plunged into the trees, following a narrow path that curved toward Friar Point. We gained on him—boots pounding, breath sharp in our throats—but not as quickly as Copper.

The little beagle came from nowhere, bounding past us with determined joy, ears flapping. He leapt—fearless—at the traitor’s heels.

They disappeared over the bluff.

My heart in my mouth, I reached the edge, expecting the worst.

But there, fifteen feet below, the man lay on the rocks with one leg twisted unnaturally beneath him—groaning, cursing, helpless. And beside him, tail wagging with unabashed pride, stood Copper, barking triumphantly.

“Look at that!” I called up to Holmes, already scrambling down toward the shoreline. “Our copper conspirator, stopped by our Copper!”

Holmes chuckled from above. “One must never underestimate the observational instincts of a beagle—or the good sense of Lady Cordelia Derwent.”

And with that, the last thread was tied, and the case, at last, was closed.

 

 

Afterword: Of Almonds, Recognition, and a Winter’s Peace

It was two weeks after our return to London, and Holmes and I sat before the fire at Baker Street, the flames painting gold upon the hearth tiles and a hush over the city streets beyond. Outside, snow was falling again—light, steady, and faintly luminous in the gaslight.

Then came a knock at the door, followed by Mrs. Hudson’s familiar tread on the stairs, brisk and muffled through the carpet.

“A hamper for you, gentlemen,” she called, “and a letter addressed in a most official hand.”

The parcel bore no signature, but the letter within was plain in its weight. Though our work would never grace headlines or public record, it had spared the Crown a grave embarrassment. The political tension surrounding the Great Game had cooled, the rumblings over Russia’s movement into Afghanistan momentarily stilled—not by speech or treaty, but by the quiet dismantling of a plot in the hills above Keswick.

A similar message, we learned, had arrived at Derwent House. Lady Cordelia and her beagle, Copper, had been invited to Her Majesty’s summer garden party—a rare and well-earned nod to their service.

Holmes glanced at the note, then reached into the hamper and plucked out a sugared almond. He regarded it for a moment, then said, almost absently, “You never asked how I plucked our traitor from the raffle stage with such accuracy.”

“I assumed fate had a hand,” I said.

He smiled faintly. “Hardly. I heard his voice outside the telegraph office while coordinating the railway search. I followed, quietly. Confronting him then risked too much—if he raised the alarm, our Russian friends might have slipped away. When I saw him purchase a raffle ticket, I simply bought the next one. Then I had a quiet word with the mayor, asking him to announce the preceding number when calling the first prize.”

“Elegant,” I said.

“Predictable,” he replied.

He selected another almond and settled back into his chair.

“Merry Christmas, John,” he said.

I smiled in return, reached for the dates, and added, “And to you, Holmes.”