Monday morning arrived grey and bitter, with frost coating the windows of Jimmy's room like lace.
He dressed with unusual care—his best suit, freshly pressed by Mrs. Price, his shoes polished to a shine that reflected Birmingham's perpetual overcast sky.
If he was going to sell his soul, he'd do it looking respectable.
Mrs. Price said nothing when he came down for breakfast, but she studied his face with knowing eyes. She set a plate of eggs and toast before him, poured tea, and finally spoke.
"You've made your decision."
"Yes."
"The Shelbys, then."
"Yes."
She sat across from him, her weathered hands folded on the tablecloth. "I won't say I approve, cariad. But I understand. Sometimes we do terrible things for the right reasons. Sometimes the right reasons don't make the terrible things any less terrible."
"That's remarkably unhelpful, Mrs. Price," Jimmy said, though without heat.
"I'm not here to make you feel better about your choices. I'm here to make sure you survive them." She reached across and squeezed his hand.
"Whatever happens, you'll always have a room here. Always have someone who sees you as more than what you do for a living. Remember that when the Shelby world gets too dark."
Jimmy finished his breakfast in silence, kissed Mrs. Price on the cheek—something he never did, but the moment seemed to demand it—and walked out into the January morning.
Four o'clock was hours away, but he couldn't sit still. Couldn't work on other cases when his entire life was about to change. So he walked.
Through Small Heath first, past the butcher shop where his office waited empty and judging. Past the factories belching smoke into the already grey sky.
Past women scrubbing doorsteps and men trudging to work and children playing games in streets slick with frost and soot.
This was the world he'd tried to serve, solving problems for whoever could pay regardless of affiliation.
He continued walking, leaving Small Heath behind, moving into the more respectable parts of Birmingham.
Past the library where Nell Morrison worked, though he didn't go in. Past the Grand Hotel where he'd once met wealthy clients who wanted discrete assistance with indiscrete problems.
Past the shops and banks and offices where legitimate business happened, or what passed for legitimate in a city as corrupt as Birmingham.
Eventually he found himself at the cemetery again, standing before Mary's grave in the cold morning light. He'd brought fresh flowers this time—winter roses, expensive and unsuitable for the season, but Mary had loved roses.
"I'm accepting Tommy's offer," he told the headstone, his breath misting in the cold air. "Exclusive employment with the Peaky Blinders. Twenty pounds a month, protection, resources. And most importantly—information about Robert Chandler. The man who killed you."
A magpie landed on a nearby monument, its black and white feathers stark against the grey morning. Jimmy watched it for a moment, remembering the old rhyme.
One for sorrow, two for joy. Just one magpie. Appropriate.
"Tommy thinks I've already made my decision, and he's right. I made it the moment he said Chandler's name."
Jimmy knelt to arrange the roses in the holder, his fingers numb despite his gloves. "But I want you to know—if you're somewhere that you can know—that I'm doing this for you. Not for money or protection or power. For you. For justice."
The magpie flew away, and Jimmy was alone with the dead.
"I hope that's enough," he whispered. "I hope that when this is over, when Chandler is destroyed and you're avenged, I hope the cost was worth it. Because I think the cost is going to be everything I have left of myself."
He stayed for a while longer, until the cold became unbearable and his knees ached from kneeling on frozen ground.
Then he stood, adjusted his spectacles, and walked back toward Small Heath. Toward the Shelby offices. Toward the future he'd chosen, or the future that had chosen him.
---
The Shelby Company Limited betting shop was quieter than usual when Jimmy arrived at four o'clock.
A few Peaky Blinders loitered outside, smoking and watching the street with the casual alertness of men accustomed to violence. They nodded to Jimmy as he passed—word traveled fast in Small Heath, and by now everyone knew the fixer was joining the family.
Upstairs, Tommy's office door was open. Jimmy could see him inside, standing by the window with his back to the door, hands in his pockets, the posture of a man surveying his kingdom.
Arthur sat in one of the chairs, legs sprawled, looking simultaneously relaxed and ready to explode into violence at any moment. And Polly Gray stood near the desk, smoking, her dark eyes finding Jimmy immediately.
"Mr. Cartwright," Tommy said without turning. "Punctual. I appreciate that."
"I appreciate not wasting time," Jimmy replied, stepping into the office. "So let's not waste any. I'm accepting your offer. Twenty pounds a month retainer, payment for individual jobs, protection, and full information about Robert Chandler."
"Just like that?" Polly's voice was sharp with suspicion. "No negotiation? No conditions?"
"I have conditions," Jimmy said, meeting her gaze steadily. "First: I maintain my office above Morrison's. I'll work from there when possible, here when necessary, but I keep my own space. Second: I won't kill anyone. That's non-negotiable. I'll help you destroy people, ruin them, drive them from Birmingham—but I won't put a bullet in anyone's head. Third: I reserve the right to refuse cases that violate my personal ethics."
"Which are?" Arthur asked, genuinely curious.
"No harm to children. No covering up sexual violence. No helping anyone I know to be a predator." Jimmy's voice was flat, unemotional, reciting rules he'd learned the hard way. "Everything else is negotiable."
Tommy turned from the window, and Jimmy saw calculation in those blue eyes. "You want your own office because you're not ready to fully commit. You want to maintain the illusion of independence even while working exclusively for us."
"Yes," Jimmy agreed, seeing no point in denying it. "I need that illusion. Call it pride, call it foolishness, but I need it."
"Fair enough." Tommy moved to his desk and pulled out a sheet of paper. "Standard contract. Twenty pounds per month, due on the first. Additional payment for individual jobs based on complexity and risk. You report to me directly, though you'll take assignments from Polly or Arthur when I'm unavailable. You're forbidden from working for anyone else without explicit permission. Violation of contract results in—"
He paused. "—termination of employment."
Everyone in the room understood that "termination" meant more than just losing a job.
"And my conditions?" Jimmy asked.
"Accepted. Keep your office, refuse to kill, turn down cases that violate your ethics." Tommy set the contract on the desk. "Though I reserve the right to question your ethics if they start interfering with business."
Jimmy approached the desk and read the contract carefully. It was surprisingly straightforward for a document written by gangsters—no hidden clauses, no legal trickery.
Tommy Shelby might be a criminal, but apparently he believed in clear terms.
"You'll notice there's no termination date," Polly pointed out. "This is an indefinite contract. Once you sign, you're ours until we release you or you die."
"Or until I violate the contract and you kill me," Jimmy said dryly. "Yes, I noticed."
"Just making sure you understand the commitment." Polly stubbed out her cigarette. "This isn't a job you quit when you find something better. This is family business."
Jimmy picked up the pen Tommy offered—expensive, probably worth more than Jimmy's entire desk—and signed his name with the careful precision that had served him well in solicitors' offices years ago.
The ink was barely dry when Arthur slapped him on the back hard enough to stagger him.
"Welcome to the Peaky Blinders, professor! We'll have a proper celebration at the Garrison tonight."
"No celebration," Tommy said firmly. "Not yet. Mr. Cartwright's employment needs to remain quiet until we're ready to announce it. I don't want our enemies knowing we've acquired his services until we've used those services to destroy them."
"Boring," Arthur complained, but he didn't argue.
Tommy filed the contract away and pulled out the folder Jimmy recognized from their previous meeting. "Now. Robert Chandler. Time to discuss how we're going to destroy him."
Jimmy settled into a chair, pulling out his notebook and pen. This was what he did best—strategy, planning, finding the angles that others missed.
The moral implications of signing away his independence could wait. Right now, there was work to do.
Tommy spread several documents across his desk. "Robert Chandler, age fifty-two. City councilman for three years, respected businessman, married to Patricia Chandler, no children. Owns three properties in Birmingham, sits on the boards of two charitable organizations, and campaigns on an anti-corruption, anti-gang platform."
"The irony being that he's the biggest criminal in the room," Polly added. "Just better at hiding it."
"Tell me about the weapons theft," Jimmy said, taking notes. "The one Mary witnessed. How did it work?"
Tommy lit a cigarette. "During the war, Chandler was a foreman at BSA. He had three accomplices—William Harper, Joseph Greene, and Martin Fletcher. They were stealing rifles off the production line, maybe one in twenty, and selling them to the highest bidder. Russians, Irish republicans, even Germans through neutral intermediaries. Thousands of pounds worth of weapons over three years."
"And Mary discovered this how?"
"She was a quality inspector," Polly said quietly. "Smart girl, good with numbers. She noticed discrepancies between production numbers and shipment numbers. Started asking questions."
Jimmy's hand clenched on his pen, but he kept his voice level. "What happened to the accomplices?"
"Harper died at Passchendaele in 1917," Tommy recited. "Greene died of tuberculosis in 1920. Fletcher was killed in a bar fight in 1919, though that might not have been coincidental. Only Chandler survived and prospered."
"Convenient for him." Jimmy made notes, his mind already working through angles. "Do you have proof of the weapons theft?"
"Not proof that would hold up in court. But I have testimony from workers who suspected something, records that show discrepancies, and a pattern that's damning if you know what you're looking for."
Tommy tapped ash from his cigarette. "The problem is that it happened during the war. Records are incomplete, witnesses are dead or scattered, and Chandler has spent five years building respectability. He's untouchable through normal channels."
"Then we use abnormal channels," Jimmy said. "Tell me about his current position. What committees does he sit on? What projects is he involved with? Where does his political power come from?"
For the next two hours, they dissected Robert Chandler's life like surgeons examining a corpse.
Jimmy took meticulous notes, asking questions, finding connections, mapping out the councilman's vulnerabilities. Tommy provided information from his extensive intelligence network.
Polly added observations from her own sources—washerwomen and maids who worked in respectable houses and heard everything. Even Arthur contributed, mentioning times Chandler had spoken at public meetings, the sort of rhetoric he used, the people he associated with.
By the time they finished, Jimmy had filled ten pages of his notebook with observations, connections, and potential angles of attack.
"The key is his respectability," Jimmy said, reviewing his notes. "He's built his entire political career on being anti-corruption, pro-reform, the clean candidate fighting against men like you. If we can prove he's a hypocrite—that he's profited from crime worse than anything you've done—his entire foundation collapses."
"We've been trying to dig up dirt on him for a year," Arthur said. "He's careful. Doesn't take bribes, doesn't frequent brothels, doesn't gamble. Perfect bloody saint, at least on paper."
"No one's perfect," Jimmy said. "Everyone has secrets, everyone has weaknesses. We just need to find his."
He looked at Tommy. "I'll need access to your files. Everything you have on Chandler, his wife, his business associates, his political allies. I'll also need to do my own research—city records, property documents, financial information."
"You'll have whatever you need." Tommy stood, the meeting apparently concluded in his mind. "How long will this take?"
"Weeks, possibly months. This isn't like blackmailing Inspector Davies. Chandler is smart, careful, and well-protected. We'll need to build a case against him brick by brick, find leverage that can't be ignored or explained away."
Jimmy closed his notebook. "But I'll find it. However long it takes, I'll find the crack in his armor."
"Good." Tommy moved to the door, then paused. "One more thing, Mr. Cartwright. You're part of the family now, which means you attend family meetings. Tomorrow night, dinner at my house. Seven o'clock. Don't be late."
After Tommy left, Jimmy remained seated, suddenly exhausted. He'd just committed to destroying a city councilman, signed an indefinite contract with a criminal organization, and agreed to attend family dinners like he was actually part of the Shelby clan.
The weight of it all pressed down on him like Birmingham's perpetual smoke.
"You look like you're about to be sick," Polly observed, still standing by the desk. "Second thoughts?"
"Third or fourth thoughts, actually," Jimmy admitted. "But I signed the contract. I don't go back on my word."
"Even when your word binds you to criminals?"
"Especially then." Jimmy stood, adjusting his spectacles. "If I break my word to criminals, what's left? What separates me from men who have no honor at all?"
Polly studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. "You're an interesting man, Mr. Cartwright. Educated, principled, haunted by mistakes. You remind me of Tommy, actually. Same kind of brain that sees patterns where others see chaos. Same kind of damage beneath the surface."
"I'm nothing like Tommy Shelby," Jimmy said automatically.
"No?" Polly's smile was sharp. "You both came back from the war broken. You both turned your damage into weapons. You both tell yourselves you're better than common thugs because you use intelligence instead of violence. And you both lie to yourselves about who you really are."
She moved toward the door. "The difference is that Tommy's honest about his lies. You still think your principles make you different."
She left, and Jimmy stood alone in Tommy's office, feeling stripped bare by her assessment.
Was she right? Was he just Tommy Shelby with better excuses? A killer who used paperwork instead of guns and called himself civilized?
Arthur stuck his head back through the door. "Coming to the Garrison? Might as well start meeting the lads properly, now that you're one of us."
"I'm not—" Jimmy started, then stopped. He was one of them now, whether he admitted it or not. The contract was signed. The choice was made.
Denial was just another form of cowardice. "All right. One drink."
---
The Garrison was crowded and warm, full of smoke and noise and the sort of barely controlled violence that always seemed to hover around the Peaky Blinders.
Jimmy followed Arthur through the crowd to a private snug where several gang members were already drinking. They looked up when Jimmy entered, and he felt their assessment like a physical thing—this was the fixer, the clever man with the papers and the plans, the one who saved Arthur without firing a shot.
"Lads, this is Jimmy Cartwright," Arthur announced. "He's working for us now, exclusive-like. Anyone gives him trouble, they answer to me and Tommy both."
There were nods, a few skeptical looks, but no open hostility. In the Peaky Blinders' world, Tommy's word was law, and if Tommy said the fixer was one of them, then he was one of them.
A young man Jimmy didn't recognize extended a hand. "John Shelby. The better-looking brother."
Jimmy shook his hand, noting the firm grip and the calculating eyes. John was younger than Arthur or Tommy, maybe twenty-eight, with the same sharp features and the same predatory wariness.
"The jury's still out on that claim."
John laughed. "I like him already. Arthur said you blackmailed a copper so bad he destroyed evidence in a murder case. That takes stones."
"It takes research and leverage," Jimmy corrected. "Violence takes stones. What I do takes patience and planning."
"See, that's where you and I differ," Arthur said, pouring whiskey for everyone. "I believe in the direct approach. Someone's a problem, you shoot them. Problem solved."
"Until the next problem appears," Jimmy pointed out. "And the next. Violence creates more problems than it solves. It's a failure of imagination."
"That's what Tommy says," John observed. "That violence is a tool, not a solution. Most of the time, anyway." He raised his glass. "To Jimmy Cartwright, the man who thinks too much."
They drank, and Jimmy felt the whiskey burn down his throat, warming him from the inside.
The conversation flowed around him—talk of territories and rivals, plans and schemes, the usual business of running a criminal empire.
Jimmy listened more than he spoke, learning the dynamics, understanding who deferred to whom, where the power really lay beneath the official hierarchy.
After an hour, John Shelby leaned across the table. "So what's your story, then? How does an educated bloke like you end up forging documents for gangsters?"
"Long story," Jimmy said, not wanting to discuss it.
"We've got time."
Jimmy considered refusing, then decided there was no point. They'd find out eventually anyway—Tommy probably already knew most of it.
"I was a solicitor's clerk. Got disbarred for forging documents to save an innocent man from hanging. Turned out the man wasn't as innocent as I thought. After that, I couldn't get legitimate work, so I did illegitimate work instead. Three years later, here I am."
"And your sister?" John asked, his voice gentler than Jimmy expected. "Arthur mentioned Tommy offered you information about her death. That why you signed on?"
Jimmy's hand tightened on his glass. "Yes."
"Fair enough. We all do things for family. Tommy built this whole empire to give us something better than our dad left us. Can't fault a man for wanting justice for his sister."
It was said without judgment, just simple acceptance, and something in Jimmy's chest loosened slightly.
Maybe the Peaky Blinders were criminals. Maybe they solved problems with bullets and violence. But they understood loyalty, understood family, understood doing terrible things for the right reasons.
Maybe that wasn't nothing.
The evening wore on. More drinks appeared. The conversation shifted to lighter topics—football, women, the new jazz club opening in the city center.
Jimmy found himself relaxing despite his better judgment, laughing at Arthur's stories, matching wits with John's sharp observations.
These were dangerous men, criminals and killers, but they were also just men trying to survive in a world that had tried to kill them during the war and forgotten them after it ended.
Around nine o'clock, Jimmy excused himself. "I should go. Early start tomorrow."
"Course, course," Arthur said, already drunk and happy. "But you'll be at Tommy's tomorrow night, yeah? Family dinner. Polly cooks, it's incredible. You'll meet Ada too—she's the smart one of the family."
"I'll be there," Jimmy promised, though the idea of sitting down to dinner with the Shelbys felt surreal.
This morning he'd been independent. Tonight he was attending family dinners. The transformation had happened so quickly he hadn't fully processed it yet.
He walked back to Mrs. Price's boarding house through the January night, hands in his pockets, mind churning.
The contract was signed. The first assignment was given. The path was set. All that remained was to walk it and see where it led.
The boarding house was quiet when he arrived, everyone already in bed. Jimmy climbed the stairs to his room, undressed, and lay down without turning on the light.
Tomorrow he'd start investigating Robert Chandler in earnest. Tomorrow he'd begin the process of destroying the man who killed his sister.
But tonight, for a few more hours, he could lie in the dark and mourn the man he'd been before he signed that contract.
James Cartwright, independent fixer, neutral party, man of principles.
That man was dead now.
In his place was Jimmy Cartwright, Peaky Blinder.
The difference felt vast and insignificant all at once.
---
Tuesday morning, Jimmy reported to the Shelby offices at nine o'clock and found Polly waiting with a stack of files.
"Everything we have on Robert Chandler," she said, dropping them on the desk Tommy had assigned to Jimmy—a small workspace in the corner of the main room, far enough from the betting shop noise to concentrate but visible enough that everyone knew he was there.
"Thank you, Mrs. Gray."
"It's Polly. We don't stand on formality here." She lit a cigarette and studied him. "You'll be working here most days now. Tommy wants you integrated with the business, understanding how we operate. Can't solve our problems if you don't understand them."
Jimmy looked at the desk, the files, the visible space where everyone could watch him work. This was the opposite of his private office above the butcher shop.
This was public, communal, family.
This was his new reality.
"I understand," he said quietly.
"Do you?" Polly's gaze was sharp. "Because you signed that contract like a man jumping off a cliff. Fast, before you could change your mind. But now you have to live with the fall."
"I'm aware."
"Good." She turned to leave, then paused. "Tommy sees something in you. Some kind of potential or usefulness. But I'm not convinced yet. Prove yourself, Mr. Cartwright. Prove you're worth the protection and resources we're giving you. And prove you won't betray us the moment something better comes along."
After she left, Jimmy sat at his new desk and opened the first file on Robert Chandler.
The work was beginning. The investigation was starting. And somewhere in these pages, in the careful documentation of a man's life, lay the key to destroying him.
Jimmy pulled out his notebook, uncapped his fountain pen, and began to read.
The hunt was on.
And this time, the prey was a city councilman who'd murdered a nineteen-year-old girl and climbed to power on her corpse.
This time, justice wouldn't come from courts or police or any legitimate channel.
This time, justice would come from a forger with a fountain pen and a grudge.
Jimmy smiled grimly and kept reading.
Robert Chandler didn't know it yet, but his perfect life was about to end.
And it would end on paper, filed in triplicate, notarized and sealed.
The way all the best destructions happened.