March came to Birmingham with false promises of spring—a few days of weak sunshine followed by freezing rain that turned the streets into treacherous ice.
Jimmy had been working for the Shelbys for six weeks now, solving problems, earning respect, slowly becoming less of an outsider and more of a fixture in the offices.
But Polly Gray still watched him like a hawk studying a mouse.
He felt her eyes on him constantly. When he worked at his desk, meticulously documenting Chandler's business dealings.
When he solved problems for Arthur or John, his solutions too clever and too bloodless for her complete comfort. When he attended family meetings and contributed observations that Tommy valued and acted upon.
She never challenged him directly—not in front of the others. But her skepticism was palpable, a weight in the air whenever they occupied the same room.
Jimmy tried to ignore it. He had work to do, Chandler to destroy, a purpose that mattered more than earning the approval of a suspicious woman who would probably never trust him regardless of what he did.
But ignoring Polly Gray was like ignoring an approaching storm. You could pretend not to see the dark clouds, but eventually the rain would come.
The storm broke on a Wednesday afternoon.
---
Jimmy was alone in the Shelby offices, everyone else at the races except for a skeleton crew managing the betting shop below.
He'd volunteered to stay behind—crowds and horses held no appeal, and he had Chandler files to review. He'd finally found a promising lead: property records showing that Chandler had purchased a warehouse in 1918 for significantly less than market value, right around the time the weapons thefts would have been most profitable.
He was cross-referencing the warehouse purchase with business registry documents when he heard footsteps on the stairs.
Polly appeared, carrying a folder, her expression unreadable.
"Mr. Cartwright. Good, you're here." She set the folder on his desk with deliberate precision. "We need to talk."
Something in her tone made Jimmy's stomach clench. This wasn't about business. This was personal.
"Of course, Mrs. Gray. What can I help you with?"
"Polly," she corrected automatically, then settled into the chair across from his desk. She lit a cigarette, took her time about it, letting the silence stretch.
A power play Jimmy recognized from his solicitor days—make them wait, make them nervous, seize control of the conversation before it begins.
He waited. Patient. Calm. Giving her nothing.
Finally, she spoke. "I've been investigating you."
"I assumed you had," Jimmy said evenly. "Tommy wouldn't hire someone without background research, and you wouldn't trust Tommy's research without conducting your own. It's what I'd do in your position."
"Is it?" Polly opened the folder. "Then you won't be surprised to learn that I know everything about you. Not just the official records—the disbarment, the military service, the dead sister. I know about the cases you've handled. The people you've helped. The lines you've drawn and the ones you've crossed."
"I've never claimed to be a saint, Polly."
"No. But you've claimed to have principles. Rules you won't break." She pulled out a document and set it on his desk. "Tell me about Robert Walsh."
Jimmy's hands clenched involuntarily. He'd known this was coming eventually—Tommy had already mentioned it—but somehow Polly's version felt more invasive, more like a knife finding exactly the right place to cut.
"You know about Walsh," Jimmy said quietly. "Tommy told you."
"Tommy told me the basic facts. I want to hear it from you. In your own words. What happened with Robert Walsh?"
Jimmy removed his spectacles and cleaned them—a delaying tactic, a moment to collect himself. Then he met Polly's gaze directly.
"In 1919, a man named Robert Walsh came to me. He'd been accused of assault—allegedly attacked a shopkeeper during a robbery. The evidence against him was circumstantial but would likely result in conviction. He swore he was innocent, framed by the actual thief who'd gotten away."
"And you believed him?"
"I investigated. Talked to witnesses, reviewed police reports, examined the evidence. The case against him was weak—the shopkeeper's identification was questionable, the timeline didn't quite work, there were inconsistencies in the police narrative."
Jimmy replaced his spectacles. "I concluded he was probably innocent. Certainly didn't deserve to hang on such flimsy evidence."
"So you forged documents," Polly said. "Court records showing that crucial evidence had been mishandled. Witness statements that created reasonable doubt. You manipulated the system to get him acquitted."
"Yes."
"And then?"
Jimmy's jaw tightened. This was the part that haunted him. The part that woke him at three in the morning, sweating and sick with guilt.
"Six months later, Walsh was arrested again. This time for assaulting a child. A twelve-year-old boy. The evidence was overwhelming—multiple witnesses, physical evidence, a confession. He was convicted and sentenced to fifteen years in Winson Green Prison."
"Where he currently resides," Polly finished. "Serving time for being exactly the kind of monster you claimed never to help."
She leaned forward. "So tell me, Mr. Cartwright—how does a man with such rigid principles end up helping a child predator walk free?"
"I didn't know," Jimmy said, hearing the defensive edge in his voice and hating it. "When I helped him, I genuinely believed he was innocent. I vetted him as carefully as I vet anyone. He was convincing. His story was plausible. I had no reason to suspect—"
"But you should have suspected," Polly interrupted. "That's what you do, isn't it? Suspect everyone. Verify everything. Look beneath the surface. But with Walsh, you took him at his word. Why?"
Jimmy stood, unable to sit still anymore. He moved to the window, looking out at Small Heath's grey afternoon.
"Because I wanted to believe him. Because I'd just been disbarred for forging documents to save another innocent man, and I needed to prove to myself that I could still do good work. That my skills could still help people who deserved help."
"So you were sloppy. Careless. Desperate to feel useful."
"Yes." The admission tasted like ash. "I made mistakes. I didn't dig deep enough, didn't question hard enough, didn't see the signs I should have seen. And a child suffered because of my failure."
"What did you do when you found out?"
Jimmy turned back to face her. "I reported him to the police. Anonymously. I'd been tracking him after his acquittal, partially out of paranoia that I'd been wrong, partially because..." He trailed off.
"Because you suspected something was wrong but didn't want to admit it," Polly finished. "You knew, somewhere in your gut, that you'd made a mistake. And when you finally had proof, you tried to fix it."
"I gave the police everything I had. Documented observations of Walsh following children, visiting schools and playgrounds, patterns of behavior that were clearly predatory. That information led to his arrest and conviction."
"But it didn't undo what you'd done," Polly said. "It didn't erase the six months he was free because of you. How many children did he hurt in those six months, Mr. Cartwright?"
"I don't know." Jimmy's voice was barely audible. "The police never told me. I was an anonymous source—they couldn't have followed up even if they'd wanted to. But I think about it. Every day. I wonder how many victims there were. How many lives I damaged because I was too arrogant to admit I might be wrong."
Polly was quiet for a long moment, studying him. Then she stubbed out her cigarette and pulled out another document.
"This is why I don't trust you yet. Not because you made a mistake—everyone makes mistakes. But because you're still making the same mistake."
"What do you mean?"
"You think you're better than us," Polly said bluntly. "You think that because you don't kill, because you use intelligence instead of violence, you're morally superior. But the Walsh case proves otherwise. Your methods can be just as destructive as ours. More destructive, even, because at least when we kill someone, they're dead and can't hurt anyone else. When you destroy someone, they keep living, keep causing damage, keep creating victims."
"That's not—" Jimmy started, then stopped. Because she was right.
Nell Morrison had said essentially the same thing in the library. At what point do you stop and ask yourself if you've become exactly what you claim to oppose?
"I'm not saying this to hurt you," Polly continued, her voice softer now. "I'm saying it because you need to understand something. In this family, we're honest about what we are. We're criminals. Killers when necessary. We don't pretend to be anything else. But you—you're still clinging to the idea that you're different. Better. That your sins don't count because you commit them with a pen instead of a gun."
Jimmy sank back into his chair. "What do you want from me, Polly? Confession? I've confessed. Admission of failure? I've admitted it. I made a terrible mistake with Walsh, and I'll carry that guilt for the rest of my life. What more do you want?"
"I want you to stop lying to yourself," Polly said. "I want you to accept that you're one of us now—not temporarily, not conditionally, but actually. You're a Peaky Blinder, Mr. Cartwright. You work for criminals, you solve problems for criminals, you're paid by criminals. The only difference between you and Arthur is the weapon you use."
"I won't kill," Jimmy said stubbornly. "That's the line I won't cross."
"And I respect that. We all have lines." Polly stood, preparing to leave. "But don't confuse having a line with being morally superior. All it means is that you've found a comfortable place to stand while still getting your hands dirty."
She moved toward the door, then paused. "There's something else. Something I need your help with. Pro bono, as you educated types say."
Jimmy looked up, surprised by the shift in tone. "What kind of help?"
"There's a woman. Beatrice Murphy. She's been coming around, talking to some of the women in my network. Says her husband beats her, that she needs to get away before he kills her. She has two children, no money, nowhere to go."
"What does she need?"
"Papers," Polly said. "New identity for her and the children. Train tickets to somewhere far from Birmingham. A small amount of money to start over. The sort of thing you're very good at arranging."
Jimmy pulled out his notebook. "Tell me about her. Full details."
For the next hour, Polly told him about Beatrice Murphy—thirty-two years old, married to a dockworker with a violent temper and connections to Birmingham's criminal underworld.
Two children, ages six and nine. No family support, no legal recourse, trapped in a marriage that would eventually kill her.
Jimmy took meticulous notes, asking questions, mapping out what would be needed. False documents. Travel arrangements.
Contacts in another city who could help her find work and housing. The full extraction package he'd developed over three years of helping people disappear.
"This will take a few days," he said finally. "Maybe a week. I'll need to forge birth certificates for the children, create a complete identity history for Beatrice, arrange housing in—"
He paused. "Where do you want me to send her?"
"Manchester. I have contacts there. Women who run a safe house for situations like this." Polly's expression was softer than Jimmy had ever seen it. "Can you do it?"
"Yes. But I'll need access to blank forms, official seals, birth registry information. And I'll need to meet with Mrs. Murphy to get details—her handwriting, her speech patterns, things that will help her maintain the new identity."
"I'll arrange it." Polly moved to the door again, then turned back. "This is the test, Mr. Cartwright. Not solving problems for Tommy or Arthur. Not making money for the family. This—helping someone who can't pay, who has nothing to offer except desperate need. This is what tells me whether you're actually worth keeping around."
"I thought you didn't trust me," Jimmy said.
"I don't. Not completely. But I'm willing to be convinced." She smiled slightly. "Prove me wrong, Mr. Cartwright. Show me you're not just clever—show me you're decent. There's a difference."
---
Jimmy met Beatrice Murphy the next evening in the back room of a Small Heath pub.
Polly brought her, along with an older woman named Agnes who ran one of the safe houses in Polly's network.
Beatrice was thin, with dark hair going grey and eyes that had seen too much violence. Her hands shook when she shook Jimmy's hand, and he could see the fading bruises on her wrists where long sleeves didn't quite cover them.
"Mrs. Murphy," he said gently. "Please, sit. Can I get you tea?"
"Just water, please." Her voice was quiet, educated—this was a woman who'd come from better circumstances before marriage trapped her. "Polly says you can help me disappear. That you can give me and my children a new life."
"I can," Jimmy confirmed, setting water before her and pulling out his notebook. "But I need information. Truthful information, even if it's uncomfortable. Can you do that?"
She nodded, gripping the water glass like a lifeline.
For the next two hours, Jimmy asked questions. Her full name, date of birth, place of birth. Her children's details. Her husband's connections, his habits, where he worked and who he knew.
Her own background—education, work history, skills that could help her find employment in Manchester.
And gently, carefully, he asked about the abuse. Not for prurient interest, but because he needed to understand the danger level.
Whether her husband would search for her, how violent he might become, whether police would be involved.
Beatrice answered everything with increasing steadiness, as if telling the story to someone who believed her and wanted to help was itself a kind of relief.
She described years of escalating violence, broken bones and black eyes explained away as clumsiness. Children learning to hide when their father came home drunk.
The slow erosion of hope until Polly's network found her and offered a lifeline.
"I should have left years ago," she said quietly. "But I had nowhere to go. No money. No family who'd take me in. And he always said if I left, he'd find me. Kill me. Take the children."
"He won't find you," Jimmy promised. "By the time I'm finished, Beatrice Murphy won't exist anymore. You'll have a new name, new history, new documents that will pass any inspection. And you'll have resources in Manchester—women who understand your situation and will help you rebuild."
"Why are you doing this?" Beatrice asked suddenly. "Polly says you charge for your services. But she also says you won't take money from me. Why help someone who can't pay?"
Jimmy was quiet for a moment, considering his answer. "Because I have rules, Mrs. Murphy. Lines I won't cross. And one of those lines is that I won't help anyone who harms women or children. The corollary to that rule is that I'll always help women and children who are being harmed. No charge. No conditions. Just help."
"Because of your sister?" Polly asked quietly from the corner where she'd been observing. "Mary?"
Jimmy nodded. "Mary worked in a factory where men saw her as expendable. A tool to be used and discarded. When she threatened to expose their crimes, they killed her and called it an accident. No one cared. No one investigated. She was just another dead factory girl in a city full of them."
He met Beatrice's eyes. "I couldn't save Mary. But I can save you. It's not the same, but it's something."
Beatrice's eyes filled with tears. "Thank you. I don't know how to repay you."
"Stay alive," Jimmy said simply. "Build a good life for your children. That's payment enough."
---
The next five days were a blur of careful work.
Jimmy spent his evenings in his private office above Morrison's, forging documents with the same meticulous care he'd once used for wealthy clients.
Birth certificates for the children with new names and dates slightly altered. A marriage certificate showing Beatrice Murphy was actually Beatrice Taylor, widow of a man who'd died in the war.
Employment references from non-existent businesses. Letters of recommendation. A complete paper identity that could withstand scrutiny.
He used his contacts to arrange housing in Manchester—a small flat near the safe house, affordable but decent. He purchased train tickets using cash, untraceable.
He wrote detailed instructions for maintaining the new identity, what to say if questioned, how to avoid the small mistakes that might reveal the deception.
Mrs. Price watched him work and said nothing, just brought tea and food and made sure he didn't neglect himself entirely.
She understood what this case meant to him, why he was giving it the same care he'd give a paying client despite receiving nothing in return.
On the sixth day, Jimmy delivered the complete package to Polly. Documents, tickets, instructions, money for initial expenses, contact information for Manchester. Everything Beatrice would need to disappear completely.
Polly examined the documents with professional thoroughness. Birth certificates, marriage certificate, letters of reference—she checked everything, looking for flaws, testing whether the forgeries would hold up under official scrutiny.
Finally, she nodded. "These are perfect. Better than perfect. I've seen government documents that were sloppier than this." She looked up at Jimmy. "You're good at what you do, Mr. Cartwright. I'll give you that."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. I have one more question." Polly set the documents aside. "Why did you really do this? And don't give me that speech about rules and lines. What's the real reason?"
Jimmy considered lying, then decided honesty was simpler. "Because the Walsh case haunts me. Because I helped a monster and a child suffered. Because I need to balance the scales somehow—help enough people who deserve help to make up for the one person who didn't."
"That's not how it works," Polly said gently. "You can't balance scales like that. Helping a hundred innocent people doesn't erase helping one guilty person. The guilt doesn't go away just because you do good deeds."
"I know. But I have to try anyway."
Polly was quiet for a moment, then stood and extended her hand. Jimmy shook it, surprised by the gesture.
"You passed the test, Mr. Cartwright. You're decent. Damaged and guilty and far too clever for your own good, but decent. That matters more than skill in this family."
She released his hand. "I'm trusting you now. Don't make me regret it."
"I'll do my best."
"Your best is quite good," Polly observed. "Terrifying, actually. You destroyed Inspector Davies without leaving a trace. You're systematically dismantling Robert Chandler's life with nothing but research and planning. You solve problems for this family with the same efficiency you'd use to solve a crossword puzzle. Frankly, Mr. Cartwright, you're exactly the kind of enemy I'd never want to face."
"Good thing I'm on your side, then."
"Is it?" Polly tilted her head. "Or are we just convenient allies until you achieve your revenge? What happens after Chandler is destroyed? Do you stay with the family, or do you disappear back to whatever independence you can salvage?"
"I don't know," Jimmy admitted. "I signed a contract that says I stay. But you're right that my primary motivation was revenge. After that's done..." He shrugged. "I honestly don't know."
"Then let me tell you what I know," Polly said. "You'll stay. Not because of the contract, not because Tommy compels you, but because you'll have nowhere else to go. You've burned your bridges to the independent world. Every gang in Birmingham knows you work for us now. There's no going back to neutral ground—it doesn't exist anymore."
"That's a depressing thought."
"It's an honest one." Polly moved to the door. "But here's the thing about family, Mr. Cartwright. It's not always chosen, and it's rarely convenient. But once you're in it—truly in it—you discover that belonging matters more than independence. That loyalty matters more than freedom. That having people who'll stand beside you in the dark is worth more than all the neutral ground in Birmingham."
She left, and Jimmy sat at his desk surrounded by Chandler files and mortgage documents and property records.
Six weeks ago, he'd been independent. Neutral. Alone. Now he was a Peaky Blinder, solving problems for a criminal family, earning the trust of people he'd once viewed as just another set of clients.
The transformation should have felt like defeat. Like surrender to circumstances and compromise of principles.
Instead, it felt like coming home.
---
Beatrice Murphy left Birmingham three days later on the early morning train to Manchester.
Jimmy didn't attend the departure—too visible, too risky if her husband was watching. But Polly reported that everything went smoothly.
Beatrice and her children were safely relocated, the new identity was holding up, and the safe house in Manchester had taken them in.
"She asked me to thank you," Polly said, setting a sealed envelope on Jimmy's desk. "And to give you this."
Inside the envelope was a single sheet of paper with a child's drawing. Crudely rendered but heartfelt: a house, a sun, stick figures holding hands, and the words "Thank you Mr. Cartwright" in careful childish handwriting.
Jimmy stared at the drawing for a long moment, something tight in his chest loosening.
This was why he did what he did. Not for money or power or even revenge. For this—making someone's life better, giving desperate people a chance, balancing the scales against the Walsh case and all the other failures that haunted him.
He pinned the drawing to the wall beside his desk, next to his law degree and the map of Birmingham and all the other artifacts of his life.
A reminder of what mattered. A promise to himself that whatever else he became, whatever compromises he made, he'd never stop helping people who needed help.
Arthur noticed the drawing that afternoon. "What's that, then?"
"Reminder," Jimmy said simply.
"Of what?"
"Of why I'm willing to be one of you." Jimmy returned to his work. "And why that's not entirely a bad thing."
Arthur clapped him on the shoulder—gently this time, learning Jimmy's preference for less violent demonstrations of affection. "You're all right, professor. Bit odd, bit too clever, but all right. Glad you're with us."
After he left, Jimmy sat at his desk and let himself feel it—the warmth of acceptance, the weight of belonging, the strange comfort of being part of something larger than himself.
He was a Peaky Blinder now. Not temporarily. Not conditionally. Actually.
And for the first time since signing the contract, that fact didn't fill him with dread.
It felt, against all logic and expectation, like exactly where he was supposed to be.
The investigation into Chandler continued. The work went on. The family grew closer.
And somewhere in all of that, James Cartwright stopped being a man using the Shelbys for revenge and became a man who belonged to them.
The transformation was complete.
Now all that remained was the reckoning.