March gave way to April with the grudging emergence of actual spring—warmer days, longer light, the smoke over Birmingham turning from oppressive grey to merely omnipresent haze.
Jimmy had been a Peaky Blinder for two months now, long enough that walking into the Shelby offices felt routine rather than transgressive.
Long enough that Arthur's violent jokes and John's skeptical observations and Polly's watchful silences felt like family dynamics rather than enemy territory.
But the Chandler investigation remained frustratingly stalled.
Jimmy had accumulated folders full of information—property records, business transactions, political connections, every documented moment of Robert Chandler's rise from factory foreman to respectable councilman.
He'd mapped the man's entire life on paper, created timelines and charts and cross-references that would make any solicitor proud.
But he still hadn't found the smoking gun. The irrefutable proof that would destroy Chandler's carefully constructed respectability and bring his perfect world crashing down.
"You're obsessing," Tommy observed one afternoon, finding Jimmy at his desk surrounded by papers and diagrams. "I can see it in how you hold your pen. You're gripping it like you're trying to strangle information out of the paper."
Jimmy set down the pen and flexed his cramped fingers. "I'm close. I can feel it. The warehouse purchase in 1918—the timing is too perfect, the price too convenient. He bought it with money from somewhere, and I don't think it was legitimate savings. If I can prove the purchase money came from weapons sales—"
"Then we have him," Tommy finished. "But proving that five years later, with all the complications of wartime record-keeping? That's a long shot, Mr. Cartwright."
"Long shots are my specialty." Jimmy pulled out another file, this one containing correspondence he'd obtained through creative means.
"I've been tracking Chandler's associates from the BSA factory. Most are dead or scattered, but there's one man—Harold Pierce—who worked security at the warehouse where the stolen weapons were stored before sale. He left Birmingham in 1919, moved to Liverpool. I think he knows something."
"So talk to him."
"I plan to. But I need more context first. More information about Mary's death specifically. You said you had files—details about what happened, who witnessed it, how Chandler arranged the murder."
Jimmy met Tommy's gaze. "I need to see those files. All of them. I can't destroy Chandler without understanding exactly what he did to my sister."
Tommy was quiet for a moment, studying Jimmy with those calculating blue eyes. Then he nodded. "Come with me."
He led Jimmy into his private office and locked the door behind them—unusual enough to make Jimmy's pulse quicken.
Tommy moved to the safe hidden behind the Birmingham street map, worked the combination with practiced efficiency, and pulled out a thick folder bound with string.
"This is everything," Tommy said, setting it on his desk. "Everything my sources found about Mary Cartwright's death. Witness statements, factory records, police reports, rumors from workers who suspected something but couldn't prove it. It's not pleasant reading, Mr. Cartwright. Are you sure you want to see this?"
"I need to see it," Jimmy said quietly. "I've spent five years imagining what happened. Reality can't be worse than imagination."
Tommy's expression suggested otherwise, but he handed over the folder. "I'll leave you alone. Take your time."
After he left, Jimmy stood for a moment with the folder in his hands, feeling its weight.
This was why he'd joined the Shelbys. Why he'd signed away his independence and compromised his principles.
Everything had led to this moment—opening this folder and finally learning the truth about Mary's death.
He sat down, untied the string, and began to read.
---
Document 1: Police Report - September 15, 1917
Incident: Industrial Accident, BSA Factory, Small HeathVictim: Mary Elizabeth Cartwright, Age 19, Quality InspectorTime: Approximately 2:15 PMWitness: Robert Chandler (Foreman), William Harper (Worker)
Summary: Victim fell into pressing machinery during routine inspection. Death was instantaneous. Witnesses report victim appeared distracted, may have been startled by loud noise from adjacent machinery. No evidence of foul play. Ruling: Accidental Death.
Jimmy's hands tightened on the paper. The report was perfunctory, cursory, written by someone who didn't care about a dead factory girl. He moved to the next document.
Document 2: Witness Statement - Agnes Wilson (Worker, BSA Factory)
Interviewed by T. Shelby, March 1922
"I was there that day. Saw the whole thing, or near enough. Mary was arguing with Chandler that morning. I couldn't hear what about, but she was upset. Told another girl—Ethel, I think—that she'd found something wrong with the inventory numbers. Said she was going to report it.
Next thing anyone knew, she was dead. Chandler found her, or said he did. But something was off about it. The machinery she fell into—you had to really reach to get that close. Mary was careful. She wouldn't have reached like that, not without reason.
I tried to tell the coppers, but they didn't want to hear it. Chandler gave his statement, Harper backed him up, and that was that. Just another factory accident. Happens all the time, they said.
But I know what I saw that morning. Mary was scared. Whatever she found, it scared her bad enough to threaten reporting Chandler. And then she was dead."
Jimmy's vision blurred. He blinked hard, forcing himself to keep reading.
Document 3: Factory Inventory Records - July-September 1917
Analysis by T. Shelby's accountant, February 1922
Production numbers for rifles at BSA factory show consistent discrepancies during this period. Official output: 4,250 rifles per month. Shipment records: 4,000-4,050 rifles per month. Difference: 200-250 rifles monthly unaccounted for.
Mary Cartwright's quality inspection reports (attached) show she documented these discrepancies and flagged them for management review. No evidence her reports were ever acted upon. Last report filed: September 13, 1917. She died September 14, 1917.
Jimmy pulled out Mary's reports—her handwriting, precise and careful, noting the discrepancies with increasing concern.
Her final report, dated two days before her death, ended with a note in the margin: Spoke to Foreman Chandler about numbers. He said he'd look into it. Something wrong here.
Something wrong here. Mary's last words on paper, her final observation before Chandler silenced her permanently.
Document 4: Interview with Ethel Davies (Former BSA Worker)
Interviewed by T. Shelby, January 1922
"Mary and I were friends. Shared our lunch sometimes, talked about our lives. She was clever—too clever for factory work, really. Should have been a teacher or accountant, something that used her brain.
The day before she died, she told me she'd discovered something bad. Said Foreman Chandler and some others were stealing from the factory. Selling weapons they were supposed to be shipping to the army. She'd documented everything, had proof in her inspection reports.
I told her to be careful, that men like Chandler didn't take kindly to being exposed. She said she wasn't afraid. Said it was wrong, and wrong things needed to be made right.
Next day, she was dead. And I knew—we all knew—it wasn't an accident. But no one would say anything. We needed our jobs. Our families needed the money. Speaking up meant losing everything.
I'm sorry I didn't speak up then. I've regretted it every day since. Mary deserved better than she got. Deserved justice. Hope you can give her that, Mr. Shelby."
Jimmy set the document down with shaking hands. Mary wasn't afraid. Of course she wasn't.
She'd been nineteen and brilliant and convinced that righteousness would protect her. She'd believed in systems and justice and the idea that exposing wrongdoing was enough to stop it.
She'd been naive. And it had killed her.
Document 5: Coroner's Report - September 16, 1917
Victim: Mary Elizabeth CartwrightCause of Death: Massive trauma from industrial machineryManner of Death: AccidentNotes: Extensive injuries consistent with fall into pressing mechanism. No evidence of struggle or defensive wounds. Blood alcohol: None. Conclusion: Accidental death resulting from workplace hazard. No further investigation warranted.
No further investigation warranted. They'd dismissed her death in a single sentence.
A nineteen-year-old girl murdered for threatening to expose theft, and the coroner had written it off as just another factory accident.
Jimmy turned to the final documents—Tommy's own investigation from 1922, conducted years after Mary's death but finally uncovering what the police had missed or ignored.
Document 6: Investigation Summary - T. Shelby, March 1922
Robert Chandler, William Harper, and Joseph Greene were operating a weapons theft ring at BSA factory from 1916-1918. Estimated 200-300 rifles per month diverted from legitimate production and sold on black market. Buyers included Irish republicans, Russian revolutionaries, and various criminal organizations throughout Europe.
Total estimated profit: £15,000-£20,000 over two years.
Mary Cartwright discovered the thefts through her quality inspection work. On September 13, 1917, she confronted Chandler about the inventory discrepancies. Chandler assured her he would investigate but instead planned her elimination.
September 14, 1917: Chandler summoned Mary to a section of the factory floor that was temporarily understaffed due to shift changes. Harper was positioned as lookout. Under pretense of examining machinery, Chandler pushed Mary into the pressing mechanism. Harper corroborated Chandler's story of accidental death.
Police investigation was minimal. Factory deaths were common, and Mary Cartwright was working-class with no influential family to demand thorough investigation. Case closed within 48 hours.
Post-war: Harper died at Passchendaele (1917). Greene died of tuberculosis (1920). Chandler used his profits to purchase property and establish legitimate businesses. By 1920, he had successfully transitioned from criminal factory foreman to respectable businessman and aspiring politician.
Current status: Chandler is Birmingham city councilman, married to Patricia Chandler (née Westbrook, wealthy family), owns three properties and two businesses. Positioned as anti-corruption crusader despite his own criminal past. Untouchable through normal channels.
Recommendation: Requires careful, strategic destruction. Must preserve evidence of original crimes while dismantling his current respectability. Jimmy Cartwright appears ideally suited for this task.
Jimmy closed the folder and sat in Tommy's office, feeling hollowed out and rebuilt simultaneously.
For five years, he'd known Mary was murdered. But knowing abstractly and reading the specific details were different things entirely.
She'd been brave. She'd been right. She'd done everything correctly—documented the crime, confronted the perpetrator, tried to work through proper channels.
And Chandler had killed her for it. Murdered her and walked away clean, used her death as a stepping stone to respectability and power.
The rage that filled Jimmy wasn't hot and explosive. It was cold and calculating, the kind of anger that planned and prepared and waited for exactly the right moment to strike.
This wasn't about revenge anymore. This was about justice. About proving that Mary had been right, that her life had mattered, that her death wouldn't be dismissed as just another factory accident.
Tommy returned half an hour later and found Jimmy still sitting with the closed folder, staring at nothing.
"You all right?" Tommy asked quietly.
"No." Jimmy's voice was steady despite the turmoil beneath. "But I will be. After Chandler pays for what he did."
"The question is how to make him pay." Tommy settled behind his desk. "I meant what I said—I'll kill him if you want. One bullet, problem solved. He doesn't deserve anything more complicated."
"He doesn't deserve the mercy of a quick death," Jimmy countered. "He deserves to lose everything Mary lost. Her future. Her reputation. Her hope. I want him alive and broken, stripped of everything he built on her corpse."
"That's the spirit." Tommy pulled out two glasses and a bottle of Irish whiskey. "Drink?"
"God, yes."
They drank in silence for a moment. Then Tommy spoke.
"I've been thinking about your warehouse lead. Harold Pierce in Liverpool. I have contacts there. I could arrange a meeting, get you access to him."
"Why are you helping me with this?" Jimmy asked suddenly. "You said yourself you don't care about Mary. You're helping me destroy Chandler because he's a political enemy, not because of what he did five years ago. So why put this much effort into my revenge?"
Tommy considered the question, swirling whiskey in his glass.
"Two reasons. First, because you're right that Chandler is a political enemy. He's using his position to attack our legitimate business operations, pushing for investigations and regulations that threaten everything we're building. Destroying him serves my interests."
"And the second reason?"
"Because you're family now." Tommy said it simply, as if it were obvious. "And family helps each other settle scores. Arthur has his vendettas, John has his, Polly has hers. You have Chandler. Helping you destroy him is what family does."
Jimmy stared at his whiskey, feeling that uncomfortable warmth again. The sense of belonging he'd been fighting since joining the Shelbys.
"I'm still not sure I believe in family."
"You don't have to believe in it for it to be true." Tommy refilled their glasses. "Go to Liverpool. Talk to Harold Pierce. Find out what he knows about the warehouse and the weapons sales. Bring me proof we can use, and I'll help you turn it into Chandler's destruction."
---
Jimmy took the train to Liverpool three days later, traveling second-class and carrying a battered briefcase that made him look like a struggling clerk rather than a Peaky Blinder's fixer.
Anonymity was crucial—Chandler had connections throughout England, and the last thing Jimmy needed was word getting back that someone was investigating his past.
Liverpool was grey and crowded, its docks busy with ships from around the world. The smell of salt water mixed with industrial smoke, creating an atmosphere different from Birmingham but equally oppressive.
Tommy's contacts had located Harold Pierce working as a warehouse supervisor near the docks—not dissimilar to his job at BSA during the war, but legitimate this time.
Jimmy watched the warehouse for a day first, learning Pierce's patterns. The man was in his fifties now, weathered and careful, the type who'd survived the war and criminal associations through caution and silence.
Getting him to talk would require the right approach.
On the second day, Jimmy intercepted Pierce during his lunch break at a dockside pub. He bought two pints and approached the table where Pierce sat alone, reading a newspaper.
"Harold Pierce? My name is James Cartwright. I'd like to talk to you about Robert Chandler."
Pierce's expression closed immediately. "I don't know anyone by that name."
"That's interesting, because Birmingham employment records show you worked security at BSA factory from 1915 to 1919. Robert Chandler was a foreman there. Surely you remember your foreman."
"It was a long time ago. I don't remember much from those days." Pierce started to stand.
"I'm not police," Jimmy said quickly. "And I'm not here to cause trouble. I'm here because Chandler killed my sister, and I want to destroy him for it. I think you can help me do that."
Pierce hesitated, then slowly sat back down. "Your sister?"
"Mary Cartwright. She worked quality inspection at BSA. Died in September 1917 in what was officially ruled an accident but was actually murder. Chandler killed her because she discovered he was stealing weapons."
Jimmy kept his voice level, factual. "I have documentation proving the thefts happened. What I need is a witness who can testify to Chandler's involvement. Someone who was there and saw what he was doing."
"I can't help you," Pierce said, but his eyes said otherwise. "I've built a good life here. I've got a wife, children. I can't risk getting involved in something from the war."
"I'm not asking you to testify in court. I'm asking you to confirm what I already know. Off the record, anonymous if necessary. Just tell me what you saw."
Jimmy pulled out photographs from the folder—Mary's picture, young and smiling, full of life. "She was nineteen years old. She did everything right, and Chandler murdered her for it. Please. Help me give her justice."
Pierce stared at Mary's photograph for a long moment. Then he sighed, the sound of a man acknowledging a debt he'd tried to forget.
"I worked security at the warehouse where Chandler stored the stolen weapons before sale. Didn't know what was in the crates at first—just did my job, logged inventory, kept watch. But after a while, I figured it out."
"You saw Chandler there?"
"Twice. Once with Harper, once with Greene. They'd come at night, move crates into a smaller storage room. Private buyers would come a few days later, pay cash, take the crates. I didn't ask questions—didn't want to know. But I knew it was wrong."
"Did you know about Mary Cartwright?"
Pierce's face twisted. "I heard rumors after she died. That she'd been asking questions about the thefts. That Chandler dealt with her. I didn't know for certain, but I suspected."
He met Jimmy's eyes. "I should have said something. Should have gone to the police or her family or someone. But I was scared. Scared of Chandler, scared of losing my job, scared of getting caught up in it all."
"You can make up for that now," Jimmy said quietly. "Tell me everything you remember. Dates, times, buyers, how the operation worked. Give me ammunition to destroy Chandler, and maybe you'll sleep better at night."
For the next two hours, Pierce talked. He described the warehouse operation in meticulous detail—the schedule of thefts, the storage procedures, the buyers who came from Ireland and Russia and parts unknown.
He named names, gave dates, sketched diagrams of the warehouse layout.
Most importantly, he remembered specific details that could be verified: a Russian buyer with a distinctive scar who'd been arrested in 1920 and might testify to save himself, a ledger Chandler had kept hidden in the warehouse office, a shipping manifest that showed discrepancies between official records and actual inventory.
"The ledger is probably long gone," Pierce warned. "Chandler was too smart to keep incriminating evidence around. But the warehouse still exists. Chandler bought it after the war—used his theft profits to purchase the scene of his crimes, if you can believe it. Maybe he destroyed the evidence, maybe he didn't. Worth checking."
Jimmy wrote everything down in his notebook, his hand cramping from the pace but refusing to slow down.
This was it—the breakthrough he needed. Not definitive proof yet, but a roadmap to finding it.
"Why are you really helping me?" Jimmy asked when they finished. "You've kept silent for five years. Why talk now?"
Pierce was quiet for a moment. "Because I have a daughter. She's eighteen—almost exactly the age your sister was when she died. And I look at her, and I think about some bastard like Chandler deciding she's inconvenient and needs to disappear. I think about how I'd feel if that happened and no one cared, no one investigated, no one gave a damn about justice."
He finished his pint. "I can't undo what I failed to do in 1917. But I can help you do what needs doing now."
They parted with a handshake and Pierce's contact information if Jimmy needed to follow up.
Walking back to the train station through Liverpool's crowded streets, Jimmy felt something shift. The investigation was moving from theoretical to practical, from research to action.
Soon—maybe weeks, maybe months, but soon—he'd have everything he needed to destroy Robert Chandler.
---
He reported back to Tommy the next day, spreading his notes across the desk in Tommy's office.
"Pierce confirmed everything. Chandler ran the weapons thefts, used the warehouse for storage, kept records in a ledger. Most importantly—Chandler bought the warehouse after the war. He owns the building where he stored stolen weapons."
"Why would he do that?" Tommy asked. "Seems risky, keeping the crime scene."
"Sentimental attachment? Need to control the evidence? Or maybe just arrogance—believing he's so untouchable that it doesn't matter."
Jimmy pulled out a property map. "The warehouse is still operational. Chandler rents it to a textile company. But he retained ownership and has a key to the premises."
"So we search it."
"Carefully. If Chandler kept that ledger, it would be hidden well. And we can't just break in—if he notices a break-in, he'll know someone's investigating him. We need legal access or an opportunity when he's not watching."
Tommy studied the map, calculating. "I might have an angle. The textile company renting the warehouse—they've been late on payments. If I bought their debt and called it in, they'd default on the lease. Chandler would have to find new tenants. During that transition period, the warehouse would be empty. You could search it thoroughly without anyone noticing."
"That works." Jimmy made notes. "How long would that take to arrange?"
"Two weeks, maybe three. I'll need to track down who holds their debt, negotiate a purchase, then apply pressure. But it's doable." Tommy leaned back. "Anything else from Liverpool?"
"Pierce mentioned a Russian buyer who was arrested in 1920. Name of Dmitri Volkov, currently in Walton Prison. He might testify about purchasing weapons from Chandler if offered a deal."
"I'll make inquiries. See if Volkov is the type to cooperate or the type to keep his mouth shut." Tommy pulled out fresh paper.
"We're close, Mr. Cartwright. A few more pieces, and we'll have everything we need to destroy Chandler publicly and completely."
Jimmy felt the cold satisfaction again, that calculated anger that had been building since reading Mary's file.
"I want him to know it's coming. Not immediately, but before the end. I want him to understand that Mary Cartwright mattered. That her death wasn't just another forgotten factory accident. That she won."
"Revenge is more satisfying when the victim knows why they're suffering," Tommy agreed. "We'll arrange that. When the time comes, you'll have your moment with Chandler. Your chance to explain exactly how he destroyed himself by murdering your sister."
They worked through the afternoon, planning the next steps. Tommy would handle the warehouse access and the Volkov inquiry.
Jimmy would continue researching Chandler's current life, looking for vulnerabilities to exploit once they had hard evidence of past crimes.
As evening approached and Jimmy prepared to leave, Tommy stopped him at the door.
"You've changed since you joined us. Less rigid, more comfortable. Still clever as hell and twice as dangerous, but more..." Tommy searched for the word. "More human, I suppose. Less isolated."
"Family does that, apparently," Jimmy said dryly. "Makes you more human and less independent."
"Is that a bad thing?"
Jimmy considered the question honestly. "I don't know yet. Ask me after Chandler is destroyed."
He walked back to Mrs. Price's boarding house through the April twilight, Birmingham's smoke turning the sunset orange and purple.
The investigation was accelerating. The endgame was approaching. And somewhere in the city, Robert Chandler went about his respectable life, completely unaware that the ghost of Mary Cartwright was coming for him.
Jimmy stopped at the cemetery on his way home, standing before Mary's grave in the fading light. He'd brought flowers—roses again, expensive and unsuitable but what she would have wanted.
"I met someone in Liverpool," he told the headstone. "Harold Pierce. He was there when Chandler stored the stolen weapons. He saw everything, Mary. And he's going to help me prove what you discovered."
A cold wind picked up, scattering petals from the roses. Jimmy adjusted his spectacles and continued.
"I read the files about your death. I know what happened now—how you confronted Chandler, how he murdered you, how the police didn't care enough to investigate. I know you were brave and right and that you died for doing the right thing."
His voice caught, and he stopped, composing himself.
"I'm going to make him pay. Not just for killing you, but for everything he's done since. For building a life on your corpse. For becoming respectable while you were forgotten. I'm going to take it all away from him, piece by piece, until there's nothing left but ruins."
The cemetery was quiet except for distant factory sounds. Jimmy stayed a while longer, letting the cold seep into his bones, letting Mary's memory solidify his resolve.
"I'm coming for him," he promised the stone, the grave, the ghost of his brilliant sister. "Soon. And when I'm done, everyone in Birmingham will know that Mary Cartwright mattered. That her life meant something. That she won in the end."
He walked away as night fell completely, leaving the roses on the grave like a promise.
The hunt was accelerating.
The ghost was rising.
And Robert Chandler's time was running out.