The first three weeks of February passed in a blur of adjustment and learning.
Jimmy divided his time between his private office above Morrison's—where he still handled the occasional independent case Tommy approved—and his new desk at Shelby Company Limited, where he was slowly, awkwardly integrating into the family business.
It was like learning a foreign language while already fluent in a related dialect. He understood crime, understood problem-solving, understood the mechanics of Birmingham's underworld.
But the Shelbys operated by different rules, with different priorities, and navigating their family dynamics required skills his solicitor training hadn't provided.
The desk Tommy had assigned him was strategically positioned. Close enough to the main office to overhear important conversations, far enough from the betting shop chaos to concentrate.
Visible to everyone, which meant everyone could watch him, assess him, judge whether this educated fixer with his fountain pens and careful notes was actually useful or just Tommy's latest expensive mistake.
Jimmy felt their eyes constantly. Arthur's friendly curiosity. John's skeptical amusement. Polly's unwavering suspicion.
And the dozen other Peaky Blinders who worked in the offices, men whose names he was still learning, whose roles in the organization remained mysterious.
He worked through the Chandler files methodically, taking notes in his precise shorthand, cross-referencing information, building a mental map of the councilman's life.
Property records, business investments, political alliances, social connections. Everything documented, everything filed, everything analyzed for weaknesses.
But the investigation was slow work, and Tommy needed him for other things. Smaller problems that required his particular skills.
Tests, Jimmy realized. Ways to prove his value while Polly watched and waited for him to fail.
The first test came on a Tuesday afternoon.
---
John Shelby dropped a folder on Jimmy's desk with a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "Got a problem for you, professor. Lady friend causing trouble."
Jimmy set aside the Chandler files and opened the new folder. Inside were several letters, photographs, and a brief summary written in John's surprisingly neat handwriting.
The story was depressingly common: John had been involved with a woman named Catherine Morrison (no relation to the butcher or the librarian), the relationship had ended badly, and now Catherine was threatening to go to the police with information about Shelby operations unless paid £500.
"Blackmail," Jimmy observed. "She must be desperate or stupid. Blackmailing the Peaky Blinders rarely ends well for the blackmailer."
"Aye, well, Arthur's solution involves the canal and some concrete boots," John said, his tone light but his eyes hard. "Tommy said to give you first crack at it. See if you can solve it without bodies."
Jimmy read through Catherine's letters. They were angry, hurt, and increasingly desperate. A woman scorned, certainly, but also a woman genuinely frightened about her future.
Between the lines of threats and demands, he could read a story he'd seen before: working-class woman, few options, relationship with a gangster her best chance at security.
When that relationship ended, she was left with nothing and facing a future of poverty or worse.
"Tell me about her," Jimmy said. "Not the relationship details—I don't need to know what happened between you. Tell me about her circumstances. Family, work, prospects."
John settled into the chair beside Jimmy's desk, his earlier bravado fading slightly.
"She works at a factory, packing chocolates. Lives with her mother and younger brother. Father's dead—the war. Brother's got some kind of lung problem, can't work regular. They're struggling, basically. I helped with money when we were together, but after we broke up..." He shrugged. "I'm not a bloody charity."
"She's not actually going to the police," Jimmy said, reading through the letters again. "Look at the threats. They're specific about what she knows, but vague about when she'll act. She's hoping you'll pay rather than call her bluff. This is desperation, not malice."
"So what do we do? Pay her and set a precedent that threatening Shelbys gets you money?"
"No." Jimmy pulled out fresh paper and began writing. "We give her something better than money. We give her a way out that doesn't require destroying you or getting herself killed."
Over the next hour, Jimmy made three phone calls and wrote two letters.
The result: Catherine Morrison would receive a job offer from a textile factory in London, better pay than her current work, with advance on wages sufficient to cover her brother's medical treatment.
The job was real—Jimmy had contacts in London from his independent fixing days—and the offer was legitimate. All Catherine had to do was take it and disappear from Birmingham.
"That's it?" John looked skeptical. "You think she'll just take the job and forget about the £500?"
"She doesn't want £500," Jimmy explained. "She wants security. A future. This gives her both, plus removes her from Birmingham where she's a reminder of a failed relationship and a potential threat. Everyone wins."
"Except she could still talk to the coppers from London."
"She could. But she won't." Jimmy sealed the letter containing the job offer. "Because I'm also including a note explaining that this offer is contingent on her permanent silence about Shelby family business. If she talks, the job disappears, and she's back where she started. Carrot and stick, Mr. Shelby. Just like your brother prefers."
John took the letter, studying Jimmy with new respect. "You're a manipulative bastard, you know that?"
"I prefer 'strategically thoughtful,' but yes." Jimmy returned to his Chandler files. "Let me know if she accepts."
Three days later, John reported that Catherine Morrison had taken the job and moved to London.
Problem solved. No violence, no payment of blackmail, no precedent set. Just a carefully constructed solution that gave everyone what they actually needed rather than what they thought they wanted.
Arthur heard about it and cornered Jimmy at his desk. "That's bloody brilliant, that is. John's lady friend gone without a fuss, no bodies, no police sniffing around. How'd you know she'd take it?"
"I didn't know," Jimmy admitted. "But I understood her position. She wasn't trying to hurt John—she was trying to survive. Give people a better option than revenge, and most of them will take it."
"Most, but not all." Arthur leaned against the desk, his expression thoughtful. "What about the ones who want blood, not solutions?"
"Those are your department," Jimmy said dryly. "I solve the problems that don't require killing. You handle the rest."
Arthur laughed, loud enough to draw looks from across the office. "I like you, professor. You're clever without being a smug bastard about it. That's rare."
---
The second test came a week later, and it was Arthur who needed help.
Someone was stealing from the Shelby protection rackets—skimming money before it reached the counting room. Not large amounts, but consistent, careful, professional.
Tommy suspected one of their own soldiers but couldn't prove it without tipping off the thief.
"I need you to catch him," Tommy told Jimmy, spreading accounting ledgers across his desk. "Without him knowing he's been caught. Whoever this is has been careful, smart. The moment we start asking questions directly, the stealing stops and we lose our chance to identify him."
Jimmy spent two days analyzing the ledgers, looking for patterns. The thefts were irregular in timing but consistent in amount—always exactly £3 per collection, never more, never less.
Small enough to escape casual notice but adding up to £30 or £40 per month. Whoever was doing this knew the accounting system well enough to skim without disrupting the totals too obviously.
He made lists of every soldier who handled collections, cross-referenced against dates of thefts, location of rackets affected.
The pattern slowly emerged: the thefts only occurred on routes handled by a rotating group of five men, but one name appeared on 80% of the affected collections.
Michael Sullivan. Irish immigrant, been with the Shelbys for two years, reliable worker with no apparent vices or expensive habits. On paper, he was an unlikely thief.
But Jimmy had learned during the war that the least likely suspect was often the correct one. Men who seemed to have no motive often had the best-hidden motives.
He conducted discrete inquiries through Mrs. Price's network—what did the washerwomen and maids know about Michael Sullivan?
The answer came back within a day: Sullivan was sending money home to Ireland. Regular payments, always the same amount. Always exactly £3.
"It's Sullivan," Jimmy told Tommy, presenting his evidence. "He's not stealing for himself—he's sending money to family in Ireland. Probably has sick relatives or children to support. The amounts are too consistent to be personal spending."
"You're sure?"
"As sure as I can be without confronting him directly."
Tommy studied the evidence, then nodded. "Arthur wants to beat a confession out of him. What do you recommend?"
Jimmy considered. The easy answer was violence—beat Sullivan, recover the money, make an example. But that seemed wasteful.
Sullivan was otherwise reliable, and his motive was sympathetic even if his methods weren't.
"Talk to him," Jimmy suggested. "Tell him you know about the thefts but you understand why. Offer him a wage increase to cover what he's been sending home, with the condition that the stealing stops immediately. You keep a good worker, he keeps supporting his family, and you demonstrate that the Shelbys take care of their own."
"Mercy?" Tommy's eyebrow raised. "That's not usually how we handle thieves."
"It's not mercy—it's pragmatism. Dead men can't collect protection money. Beaten men work poorly. But a man who knows his employer understands his situation and chooses generosity over violence? That man becomes loyal."
Tommy was quiet for a moment, then smiled slightly. "You think like Polly. She's always saying violence is expensive—you have to pay doctors, lose working days, deal with resentment and revenge plots. Better to solve problems before they require bloodshed."
"Then Polly's smarter than both of us combined," Jimmy said.
The meeting with Sullivan happened the next day. Jimmy wasn't present—Tommy handled it personally—but the result was as he'd predicted.
Sullivan broke down, confessed, explained about his sick mother and disabled brother in County Cork. Tommy offered a wage increase and a loan against future earnings to cover accumulated debts.
Sullivan became one of the most loyal soldiers in the organization, and word spread through the ranks that the Shelbys rewarded honesty and took care of their own.
Arthur clapped Jimmy on the back hard enough to make him stumble. "Two problems solved without a single punch thrown. You're making me look bad, professor."
"You specialize in different problems," Jimmy pointed out, rubbing his shoulder where Arthur's hand had landed like a hammer. "When someone needs fear and violence, they come to you. When they need thinking and planning, they come to me. Division of labor."
"Suppose that's true." Arthur studied him thoughtfully. "You're all right, you know that? When Tommy first said he was hiring you, I thought you'd be another useless educated bastard looking down on us working men. But you actually solve problems. You're useful."
From Arthur Shelby, that was high praise. Jimmy felt something unexpected—a small warmth of acceptance, of belonging.
He was being integrated into the family not through blood or history but through demonstrated competence and results.
It shouldn't have mattered. He was here for Mary, for revenge on Chandler, not to make friends with gangsters. But it mattered anyway.
---
The family dinner at Tommy's house happened on a Wednesday evening, and Jimmy dressed with the same care he'd used for signing the contract.
Mrs. Price brushed his suit jacket and studied him with knowing eyes.
"Meeting the family properly, then," she said. "Try not to insult anyone, cariad. The Shelbys are loyal to their own, but they're also quick to take offense."
"I'll be charming," Jimmy promised.
"You'll be yourself, which is close enough."
Tommy's house was in a better part of Small Heath—not respectable, exactly, but aspiring to it. A terraced house larger than most, with actual curtains in the windows and a front door that had been recently painted.
Jimmy knocked and was admitted by a young woman he didn't recognize—a maid, apparently, which suggested the Shelbys were moving up in the world faster than he'd realized.
The dining room was warm and surprisingly domestic. A large table set with mismatched china, gas lamps providing soft light, the smell of roasting meat and vegetables.
Polly was in the kitchen, directing operations with the authority of a general commanding troops. Tommy stood by the fireplace with a whiskey, watching everything with his usual calculating gaze.
Arthur was already half-drunk and cheerful. John lounged in a chair, reading a newspaper.
And there was a woman Jimmy didn't recognize—younger than the brothers, dark-haired and beautiful, with intelligent eyes that assessed him immediately.
"You must be the famous fixer," she said, extending a hand. "Ada Thorne. The sister."
"James Cartwright. The newest addition."
"We'll see about that." But her smile was warm, and her handshake was firm. "Tommy says you're clever. I suppose we'll find out if he's right."
Dinner was served family-style, with everyone passing dishes and serving themselves. It was chaotic and loud, with the brothers talking over each other and Polly periodically shutting them down with sharp observations.
Jimmy sat between Ada and John, trying to follow multiple conversations at once.
"So, professor," John said, helping himself to more potatoes. "Tommy says you're investigating Councilman Chandler. How's that going?"
"Slowly," Jimmy admitted. "He's been careful to hide his past crimes. It's like excavating an archaeological site—you have to remove layers carefully or you destroy the evidence you're looking for."
"What's your approach?" Ada asked, genuinely curious. "I assume you're not just going to shoot him and be done with it."
"That would be Arthur's approach," Tommy observed from the head of the table. "Mr. Cartwright prefers more subtle methods."
"I prefer methods that don't result in police investigations and hanging," Jimmy corrected. "Violence is easy. Making someone's life implode from within—that requires art."
"Art," Polly repeated from the other end of the table. She'd been mostly quiet through dinner, watching Jimmy with her usual suspicion. "That's one word for it. Cruelty is another."
"I don't deny it's cruel," Jimmy said, meeting her gaze steadily. "But so is murder. At least my victims survive to rebuild their lives. Can't do that if you're dead."
"Can't rebuild if you're destroyed so thoroughly there's nothing left," Polly countered. "Sometimes a quick death is more merciful than a slow destruction."
"Then it's fortunate I'm not interested in mercy," Jimmy said. "I'm interested in justice. For my sister, specifically, but more broadly for everyone who's been crushed by men like Chandler who use respectability as camouflage for monstrosity."
The table went quiet. Jimmy realized he'd spoken more passionately than intended, revealing too much of his motivation.
But no one looked away or seemed uncomfortable. If anything, they seemed to understand.
"Your sister," Ada said softly. "Tommy mentioned she died at the BSA factory. I'm sorry."
"Thank you." Jimmy picked at his food, appetite gone. "She was nineteen. Brilliant with numbers, careful with details. Everything I've become, she could have been if she'd lived. Chandler took that from her—from me—because she threatened his profit margin."
"Then we'll make him pay," Arthur said simply, raising his glass. "To Mary Cartwright. And to making bastards pay for what they've done."
Everyone drank, even Polly, though her eyes never left Jimmy's face.
After dinner, Ada cornered him in Tommy's study while the brothers smoked in the other room.
"You're an interesting addition to the family," she said, settling into a leather chair that probably cost more than Jimmy's monthly income. "Educated, principled, haunted. Not the usual Peaky Blinder type."
"I'm not a Peaky Blinder," Jimmy protested automatically.
"You signed a contract. You work exclusively for Tommy. You solve problems for the family. What else would you call yourself?"
Ada's smile was amused but not unkind. "You can call yourself a consultant or a fixer or whatever helps you sleep at night, but the rest of Birmingham sees you as one of us now."
"I'm aware." Jimmy moved to the window, looking out at Small Heath's evening streets. Gas lamps flickered to life one by one, and the smoke from factory chimneys turned the twilight orange and grey.
"I'm here for specific reasons—information about my sister, resources to destroy her killer. Once that's done..."
"Once that's done, you'll still be here," Ada finished. "Because there's no leaving once you're in. Not really. Tommy will always have another job for you, another problem that needs solving, another reason why you can't walk away just yet."
"You left," Jimmy pointed out. "You married outside the family, moved away from Small Heath."
"And I came back," Ada said quietly. "Because family is family, whether you want it or not. The Shelbys are criminals and killers, yes. But they're also loyal and protective and capable of surprising kindness when you least expect it. You'll find that out, Mr. Cartwright. You'll find that the people you joined for revenge become the people you stay for."
Jimmy wanted to argue, but the words wouldn't come. Because part of him—a small, traitorous part—already felt the pull of belonging.
The warmth of Arthur's acceptance, the intellectual challenge of working with Tommy, the unexpected comfort of family dinners and shared purpose.
He'd told himself this was temporary. A means to an end. Use the Shelbys to destroy Chandler, then return to independence.
But Ada was right. There was no going back. The moment he'd signed that contract, he'd burned his bridges to the past. Forward was the only direction left.
"I should go," Jimmy said. "Thank Mrs. Gray for dinner. It was excellent."
"I will." Ada stood. "And Mr. Cartwright? Welcome to the family. Whether you're ready for it or not."
---
The rest of February passed in a rhythm of work and integration. Jimmy spent his mornings at his private office, maintaining the illusion of independence.
His afternoons at the Shelby offices, working through Chandler files and solving smaller problems for the family. His evenings at the Garrison or Mrs. Price's boarding house, depending on whether the Shelbys needed him for social purposes or he needed solitude to maintain his sanity.
He began to recognize the patterns of Shelby business. The flow of money through legitimate and illegitimate channels. The strategic violence that maintained territorial control.
The network of allies, employees, and informants that made the Peaky Blinders the most powerful gang in Birmingham.
And slowly, reluctantly, he began to understand why they operated the way they did. Violence wasn't their first choice—it was their most efficient choice in a world where legitimate channels were closed to working-class men from Small Heath.
Corruption wasn't moral failing—it was survival in a system designed to keep them poor and powerless.
Jimmy had spent three years as an independent fixer, serving everyone equally, pretending neutrality made him better than the gangs he served.
But the Shelbys were teaching him something different: that choosing sides wasn't weakness, it was honesty. That loyalty to something larger than yourself wasn't surrender, it was strength.
He still didn't believe in violence as a solution. Still maintained his rules about not killing. But he was beginning to understand that his way and their way weren't opposites—they were complementary approaches to the same problem of survival in a world designed to destroy them.
By the end of February, when Polly dropped another folder on his desk—this one containing Arthur's latest problem that needed solving—Jimmy accepted it without hesitation.
Not as an independent contractor doing a job, but as a member of the family solving a family problem.
The shift was subtle but profound. He was still Jimmy Cartwright, fixer and forger. But he was also, increasingly, a Peaky Blinder.
And that fact no longer terrified him quite as much as it should have.
"Arthur's been threatened by a bookie who claims Arthur beat him without cause," Polly said, lighting a cigarette. "The bookie's talking about going to the police, making a formal complaint. We need it to go away."
Jimmy opened the folder and began reading. "What's Arthur's version?"
"That the bookie was cheating customers and needed a reminder about Shelby standards." Polly blew smoke toward the ceiling. "Probably true. Arthur's violent, but he's not indiscriminate. If he beat someone, they had it coming."
"Even if they did, we can't have them filing police reports." Jimmy made notes as he read. "The bookie's name is Frank Cooper. Does he have family? Business interests? Debts?"
"I'll find out." Polly studied him through the smoke. "You're settling in. Getting comfortable. I wasn't sure you would."
"I'm not comfortable," Jimmy said honestly. "But I'm effective. And effectiveness is what you're paying me for."
"We're paying you for loyalty," Polly corrected. "Effectiveness is secondary. Remember that, Mr. Cartwright. In this family, loyalty matters more than skill."
After she left, Jimmy sat at his desk and stared at the Chandler files that were never far from his mind.
Three weeks of investigation, and he still hadn't found the breakthrough he needed. The man was too careful, too well-protected, too skilled at hiding his crimes beneath layers of respectability.
But Jimmy was patient. Patient and thorough and persistent. He'd find the crack in Chandler's armor eventually.
And when he did, he'd drive a wedge into it and pry the man's perfect life apart piece by piece.
For Mary. For justice. And increasingly, for himself—because destroying Robert Chandler had become more than revenge.
It had become proof that intelligence was superior to violence, that cleverness could defeat power, that a forger with a fountain pen could bring down a city councilman.
Outside, Birmingham's February rain began to fall, turning the streets to rivers of mud and the smoke to toxic fog. Jimmy lit a cigarette and returned to his work.
The integration was complete. The revenge was beginning.
And somewhere in the grey and smoke and rain, Robert Chandler went about his respectable life, completely unaware that his perfect world was already crumbling at the edges.
Jimmy smiled grimly and kept reading.
Soon, Councilman. Soon.