The warehouse search would have to wait. Tommy was negotiating the textile company's debt, applying pressure, setting up the circumstances for legal access to Chandler's property.
These things took time, patience, careful maneuvering through Birmingham's complex web of business relationships and criminal obligations.
But while Jimmy waited for his revenge to ripen, the Shelby family had more immediate problems.
Information was leaking.
It started small—a planned shipment intercepted by police who shouldn't have known about it. A meeting with potential business partners disrupted by rivals who arrived with suspicious foreknowledge.
Minor setbacks, easily explained as bad luck or coincidence.
But then came the ambush.
Arthur and two Shelby soldiers were transporting money from one of their betting operations when they were attacked by men wearing balaclavas and carrying information that should have been internal knowledge only.
The attackers knew the route, the timing, the amount of money being transported. They knew everything except that Arthur Shelby was extremely difficult to kill even with superior numbers.
Arthur survived—barely—and killed three of the attackers in the process. The money was recovered.
But the message was clear: someone inside the Shelby organization was feeding information to their enemies.
Tommy called an emergency meeting the next morning. Jimmy arrived at the offices to find the entire family gathered—Tommy, Arthur, John, Polly, and half a dozen key soldiers.
The atmosphere was tense, dangerous, the kind of barely controlled violence that preceded bloodshed.
"We have a traitor," Tommy announced without preamble. "Someone in this room or someone we trust is selling information. The question is who, and how do we find them before they get us all killed."
"I say we beat it out of everyone," Arthur growled, still bandaged from the previous night's violence. "Line them up and make them talk. Someone will break."
"And if they don't?" Polly challenged. "If you beat confessions out of innocent men and the real traitor stays quiet? You'll have destroyed loyalty and trust for nothing."
"We need a more subtle approach," Tommy said, looking at Jimmy. "Mr. Cartwright. This is your specialty. Finding information, identifying patterns, exposing secrets. Can you catch our traitor?"
Jimmy felt every eye in the room turn to him. This was different from solving John's romantic problems or identifying a thief skimming protection money.
This was about family security, about life and death, about proving his worth when it truly mattered.
"I can try," he said carefully. "But I'll need complete access to everyone's activities, movements, contacts. No exceptions. If I'm investigating, I need to investigate everyone—including family."
"No," Arthur said immediately. "I'm not having him dig through family business like we're suspects."
"We are suspects," John pointed out. "Anyone could be the traitor. Hell, it could be me for all you know."
"It's not you, you're too stupid to be a good traitor," Arthur shot back.
"Enough." Tommy's voice cut through the argument. "Mr. Cartwright investigates everyone. Family included. Anyone who refuses cooperation becomes the primary suspect. Understood?"
There were reluctant nods. Jimmy pulled out his notebook, already organizing the investigation in his mind.
"I'll need records of who knew about each compromised operation. Lists of everyone with access to sensitive information. Details about timing—when decisions were made versus when the leaks occurred."
"You'll have it," Polly promised. "Whatever you need."
Over the next three days, Jimmy transformed into something between detective and inquisitor. He interviewed every Shelby soldier, every family member, every associate who might have had access to compromised information.
He reviewed betting shop records, examined phone logs, mapped out who was where when each leak occurred.
He worked from his desk in the Shelby offices, surrounded by papers and charts that looked like evidence boards from police investigations.
Soldiers passing by would glance nervously at the diagrams, wondering if their name appeared on Jimmy's list of suspects.
The investigation revealed uncomfortable truths about Shelby operations. Security was lax in places, with too many people knowing too much. Chain of command was sometimes unclear.
Critical information spread through casual conversation rather than controlled channels.
But more importantly, Jimmy began to see patterns.
The leaks only occurred on certain types of operations—shipments, meetings with external parties, money movements. Internal family business—disputes, planning sessions, social gatherings—remained secure.
That suggested the traitor was someone on the operational side, not someone in the inner circle.
The timing was consistent too. Information leaked 24-48 hours before operations, suggesting the traitor needed time to communicate with handlers but wasn't present during final planning stages.
And the targets were strategic. The leaked operations were all ones that, if disrupted, would hurt the Shelbys financially but wouldn't destroy them completely.
Whoever was behind this wanted to weaken the family, not annihilate them. At least not yet.
Jimmy created a matrix of every soldier who had access to the compromised operations. Seventeen names initially.
He cross-referenced against timing, capability, motive, opportunity. The list shrank to twelve, then eight, then five.
On the fourth day of investigation, he found the smoking gun.
It was hidden in phone records—something most people wouldn't notice, but Jimmy had spent two years as a solicitor's clerk learning to spot patterns in documentation.
One of the soldiers, Billy Kitchen, had made regular phone calls to the same number in Digbeth. The calls were brief, always less than three minutes, and always occurred within hours of major Shelby operations being planned.
Jimmy traced the number. It belonged to a boarding house frequented by Section D operatives—the government's intelligence service that operated in Birmingham's underworld, recruiting informants and manipulating gang politics to serve state interests.
Billy Kitchen was reporting to Section D.
The realization made Jimmy's stomach clench. He'd worked with Billy a few times—a quiet man in his mid-thirties, reliable soldier, never caused trouble.
The last person you'd suspect of betrayal.
Which, of course, made him the perfect traitor.
Jimmy compiled his evidence carefully: phone records, timeline correlations, the Digbeth connection. He triple-checked everything, looking for alternative explanations, trying to find a way Billy could be innocent.
But the evidence was damning and consistent.
He brought it to Tommy that evening, spreading the documents across the desk in Tommy's private office.
"It's Billy Kitchen," Jimmy said quietly. "He's been reporting to Section D. I can't prove it definitively without confronting him, but the circumstantial evidence is overwhelming."
Tommy studied the documents in silence, his face unreadable. Finally, he looked up. "You're certain?"
"As certain as I can be without a confession."
"Then we get a confession." Tommy stood and moved to the door. "Arthur!"
What followed happened quickly and with brutal efficiency. Arthur and two other soldiers brought Billy Kitchen to Tommy's office.
The man looked terrified—he knew why he'd been summoned, knew his time was up. His eyes found Jimmy's evidence spread across the desk, and something in his expression crumbled.
"Billy," Tommy said quietly, dangerously. "Mr. Cartwright has evidence suggesting you've been selling information to Section D. Before Arthur starts breaking your fingers, I'm going to give you one chance to explain yourself."
Billy's face went white. He looked at Jimmy, at the phone records, at the assembled Peaky Blinders ready to tear him apart.
Then he collapsed into a chair and started talking.
"They approached me six months ago," he said, voice shaking. "Section D. They knew about my son—Samuel. He's seven, he's got tuberculosis, he needs treatment at a sanatorium. Expensive treatment, months of care. I couldn't afford it on what I make."
"So you sold us out for money," Arthur growled, moving closer.
"They said they'd pay for Samuel's treatment if I gave them information. Nothing that would get anyone killed, they promised. Just intelligence about Shelby operations, movements, plans. They said it was for national security, that you were threats to public order."
Billy's voice broke. "My son was dying. What was I supposed to do?"
Jimmy felt an uncomfortable sympathy. He'd spent weeks helping people in impossible situations, finding third options when the choice seemed binary.
Billy Kitchen was trapped between family loyalty and paternal love, between honor and survival.
But sympathy didn't change facts. Billy had betrayed the Shelbys. Arthur had nearly died because of information Billy provided.
The penalty for betrayal was death—everyone in the room knew it.
"Tommy," Jimmy said quietly. "May I speak with Billy privately for a moment?"
Tommy's eyebrow raised. "Why?"
"Because I might have a solution that doesn't require killing him."
Arthur laughed harshly. "He's a traitor. The solution is a bullet and a shallow grave."
"Perhaps," Jimmy agreed. "But hear me out first. Five minutes. If my solution doesn't work, you can shoot him after."
Tommy studied Jimmy for a long moment, then nodded. "Five minutes. Arthur, John—outside. Mr. Cartwright, if he tries anything, shoot him yourself."
After they left, Jimmy sat across from Billy Kitchen and pulled out his notebook. "Tell me about Samuel. Where is he now? What treatment is he receiving?"
Billy looked confused but answered. "He's at a sanatorium in the Peak District. Best facility for tuberculosis in the region. Section D is paying—has been for four months now. Treatment takes six to nine months total, then hopefully he'll be cured."
"And if Section D stops paying?"
"They'll discharge him. Send him home to die." Billy's eyes filled with tears. "I know what I did was wrong. I know I deserve whatever punishment you decide. But please—don't punish my son for my mistakes. Don't let him die because I was weak."
Jimmy made notes, calculating. "Here's what's going to happen. You're going to fake your death. Convincingly. The Shelbys will believe you're dead, Section D will believe you're dead, and you'll disappear from Birmingham entirely with a new identity and enough money to finish Samuel's treatment and start over somewhere else."
Billy stared. "Why would you do that?"
"Because I don't believe in killing people when there's a better solution. And because your son deserves a father, even if that father is a traitor."
Jimmy stood. "But understand this—if you ever contact Section D again, if you ever reveal you're alive, if you ever threaten the Shelbys in any way, I will personally destroy you. Not kill you—destroy you. Make you wish you'd taken the bullet today. Clear?"
"Crystal clear," Billy whispered. "Thank you. Christ, thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. First I have to convince Tommy."
---
Convincing Tommy required presenting a complete plan, fully formed, with contingencies for every objection.
Jimmy spread papers across the desk: forged death certificate, fabricated witness statements, photographs of a corpse from the city morgue that could pass as Billy Kitchen after appropriate disfigurement.
He'd spent the last twenty minutes sketching out the entire deception while Billy waited under guard in an adjoining room.
"You want to fake his death," Tommy said flatly. "The traitor who nearly got Arthur killed, you want to help him escape."
"I want to solve the problem without creating new ones," Jimmy corrected. "If we kill Billy, Section D knows we found their informant. They'll recruit a new one, and we'll be back where we started. But if Billy dies dramatically and publicly, Section D thinks their operation was compromised and they lost their asset. They'll be more cautious about approaching our people again."
"Or they'll be more determined," Arthur countered. He'd been called back in for the explanation and was not happy. "They'll want revenge for their man's death."
"Except Billy won't actually be dead," Jimmy explained patiently. "He'll be Thomas Bennett, textile worker from Manchester, moving to Glasgow with his sick son. New papers, new identity, enough money to finish the boy's treatment and start over. He disappears, everyone thinks he's dead, problem solved."
Polly, who'd been listening silently, spoke up. "It's elegant. Bloodless. Exactly the kind of solution Mr. Cartwright specializes in. But it sets a dangerous precedent. What happens when the next traitor asks for mercy? Do we fake their deaths too?"
"The next traitor doesn't get mercy," Jimmy said firmly. "This is a one-time exception based on specific circumstances. Billy was coerced through his dying son. He didn't betray us for greed or ambition—he did it to save his child's life. That matters."
"Does it?" Tommy lit a cigarette, thinking. "In war, we shot soldiers who betrayed their units regardless of motive. Reasons don't matter when lives are at stake."
"We're not in war anymore," Jimmy argued. "And in civilian life, we have the luxury of nuance. Of finding solutions that don't require bodies. Isn't that why you hired me? To solve problems that violence can't solve?"
Tommy was quiet for a long moment, smoke curling around his face. Finally, he looked at Arthur. "What do you think?"
Arthur's jaw worked. "I think the bastard should die. But I also think Jimmy's right that killing him tells Section D we're onto them. And I trust Jimmy's judgment. He hasn't steered us wrong yet."
He pointed at Jimmy. "But if this goes sideways, if Kitchen talks or causes problems, you fix it. Your responsibility."
"Agreed," Jimmy said.
Tommy stubbed out his cigarette. "All right. We do it your way. But Mr. Cartwright—this is the last time. No more mercy for traitors. The next one dies, regardless of circumstances. Understood?"
"Understood."
The fake death took two days to arrange. Jimmy obtained a corpse from the city morgue—an unclaimed body of a man roughly Billy's size and age.
A bit of theatre with a staged scene at the canal docks, a carefully placed bullet that destroyed the face while leaving the body recognizable through clothing and build.
Witness statements from Shelby soldiers about Billy trying to flee when confronted, about Tommy ordering his execution, about the body being dumped in the canal and recovered the next morning.
The police investigation was cursory—another gangland killing, another dead criminal, nothing unusual. Section D would receive reports through their police contacts that Billy Kitchen had been executed by the Shelbys for suspected betrayal.
Meanwhile, the real Billy Kitchen became Thomas Bennett. Jimmy spent hours coaching him on maintaining the new identity—what to say if questioned, how to explain his presence in Glasgow, the careful lies that would keep him alive.
He arranged for Samuel's continued treatment under the new name, contacted sanatorium administrators with forged documentation, ensured the transition would be seamless.
The money came from Jimmy's own savings and a loan from Tommy that Jimmy insisted on repaying. Twenty pounds for immediate expenses, passage to Glasgow, first month's rent on a small flat near the sanatorium.
Not charity—investment in solving the problem properly.
On the final night before Billy's departure, they met one last time in Jimmy's private office above Morrison's. Billy brought nothing but a small case of clothes and the forged documents that proved Thomas Bennett existed and Billy Kitchen was dead.
"I don't deserve this," Billy said quietly. "I betrayed you. I nearly got Arthur killed. I should be in that canal for real."
"Perhaps," Jimmy agreed. "But your son didn't betray anyone. He deserves a chance at life, and he deserves a father. I'm giving you both that chance. Don't waste it."
"I won't. I swear I won't." Billy extended his hand. "Thank you, Mr. Cartwright. For seeing me as more than just a traitor. For understanding why I did what I did."
Jimmy shook his hand. "I understand desperation. I understand impossible choices. But understand this—you have one chance. One life. If you waste it, if you betray this mercy, there won't be a second one."
After Billy left—heading to the train station with his new identity and his second chance—Jimmy sat alone in his office and wondered if he'd made the right choice.
The precedent worried him. The message it sent worried him. But the alternative—killing a man for trying to save his son—seemed worse.
He reported to Tommy the next morning that the problem was solved. Billy Kitchen was officially dead, the traitor eliminated, the leak plugged.
Section D would be more cautious about recruiting inside the Shelby organization. The family could return to business without looking over their shoulders constantly.
"Efficient work," Tommy said, reviewing Jimmy's final report. "Clean, thorough, minimal collateral damage. This is why we pay you, Mr. Cartwright."
"About that," Jimmy said. "The money I used to set up Kitchen's new life. I'd like to repay my loan to you within six months."
"Keep it. Consider it a bonus for catching the traitor."
"I'd rather repay it. Debts create obligations, and I prefer clean transactions."
Tommy smiled slightly. "Everything is a transaction with you, isn't it? Even mercy. You helped Billy Kitchen, but you're not sentimental about it. You did what needed doing and moved on."
"Sentiment is expensive," Jimmy said. "I learned that from Polly."
"You're learning a lot from Polly." Tommy pulled out the Chandler files and added Jimmy's Liverpool notes. "Which reminds me—the warehouse situation is almost arranged. The textile company is defaulting on their lease next week. Chandler will have the building empty for at least two weeks while he finds new tenants. That's your window to search it."
Jimmy's attention sharpened. The Billy Kitchen situation had consumed his focus for over a week, pushing Chandler temporarily to the background.
But now the investigation could resume. "I'll need help. Someone who knows how to search a building thoroughly without leaving traces."
"I'll assign John. He's good at that sort of work—methodical when he needs to be, and he understands the importance of not alerting the target."
Tommy closed the files. "Find that ledger, Mr. Cartwright. Find proof of Chandler's crimes. Then we'll destroy him properly."
---
That evening, Jimmy visited Mrs. Price's kitchen for dinner and found Nell Morrison waiting for him.
His heart did something complicated at the sight of her—surprise, pleasure, anxiety all mixed together.
They hadn't spoken since the library encounter where she'd gently accused him of becoming what he opposed. Seeing her now, in his landlady's kitchen, felt like past and present colliding.
"Miss Morrison," he said carefully. "This is unexpected."
"I asked her to come," Mrs. Price said, bustling around the kitchen. "You've been working yourself to death for weeks, and I thought you could use some civilized conversation. I'll leave you two alone. Dinner in twenty minutes."
She disappeared, leaving Jimmy and Nell facing each other across the kitchen table.
"I heard you've been busy," Nell said finally. "Solving problems for the Peaky Blinders. Becoming quite indispensable, from what people say."
"People talk too much in Birmingham."
"They do. They also say you saved a man's life this week. A traitor who should have been killed, but you found a way to spare him." Her green eyes studied him intently. "Is that true?"
Jimmy sat across from her, suddenly exhausted. "It's complicated."
"It usually is with you." Nell's voice was gentle, not accusatory. "I've been thinking about our last conversation. About what I said regarding you becoming what you oppose. I wasn't fair to you, James. You're trying to do good work in impossible circumstances. That's not easy."
"I'm not doing good work," Jimmy said quietly. "I'm solving problems for criminals. Sometimes that helps people, like Billy Kitchen and his son. Sometimes it just makes the Shelbys more powerful and dangerous. I've stopped pretending there's a moral dimension to what I do. I'm just surviving and trying to minimize damage where I can."
"That's more honest than most people manage." Nell reached across the table but didn't quite touch his hand. "I came to apologize. And to tell you that I think you're remarkable, even if the life you've chosen frightens me."
"It frightens me too," Jimmy admitted. "I wake up sometimes and don't recognize the person I've become. A man who blackmails police inspectors and helps gangsters evade justice and forges documents that could destroy innocent lives if used incorrectly. That's not who I meant to be."
"Who did you mean to be?"
"I don't know anymore. A solicitor, maybe. Someone who used the law to help people properly. Someone respectable and legitimate." He laughed without humor. "Someone you might have considered courting."
Nell was quiet for a moment. "I did consider it. When we first met at the library. You were clever and kind and different from other men I knew. But then I learned what you really did, and I couldn't reconcile the man I liked with the life you led."
"And now?"
"Now I understand better. You're not a bad man doing bad things. You're a good man doing necessary things in a world that doesn't allow for purely good choices."
She finally took his hand. "But I still can't be with you, James. Not because I don't care, but because I can't be part of that world. I need safety, stability, a life that doesn't involve looking over my shoulder constantly. That's not cowardice—it's self-preservation."
Jimmy's throat tightened. "I understand."
"I hope you find what you're looking for," Nell said softly. "Justice for your sister. Peace for yourself. A life that feels worth living. You deserve those things, even if you don't believe you do."
She stood, leaned down, and kissed his cheek. "Goodbye, James. I hope the next time we meet, you're happier."
After she left, Jimmy sat in Mrs. Price's kitchen staring at nothing. He'd known this was coming—known Nell couldn't accept his life, known the romance was doomed before it began.
But knowing and experiencing were different things.
Mrs. Price returned and set a plate before him without comment. They ate in silence for a while before she spoke.
"The right woman will accept all of you, cariad. Your work, your damage, your complicated choices. Miss Morrison isn't wrong for refusing—she knows herself and her limits. But someday you'll find someone who can walk beside you in the darkness instead of asking you to step into the light."
"I'm not sure that person exists."
"They exist. You just haven't met them yet." Mrs. Price patted his hand. "Now eat. You've got more important things to worry about than romance. Like that councilman you're planning to destroy."
Jimmy smiled despite everything. Mrs. Price had a gift for cutting through emotional complications to practical realities.
Yes, Nell had rejected him. Yes, it hurt. But he had work to do. A traitor had been dealt with. A warehouse needed searching. Robert Chandler needed destroying.
Romance could wait. Justice couldn't.
He finished dinner, thanked Mrs. Price, and climbed to his room. Tomorrow he'd meet with John Shelby to plan the warehouse search. Tomorrow the investigation would continue.
Tomorrow he'd take another step toward destroying the man who killed his sister.
The Billy Kitchen situation had proven something important: Jimmy could show mercy without being weak. Could solve problems without violence.
Could balance the scales in small ways while pursuing larger justice.
It wasn't redemption for the Walsh case. Nothing would ever redeem that failure. But it was proof that he could be more than just a weapon, more than just a tool for gangsters to use.
He could be decent. Even in darkness. Even while working for criminals. Even while destroying his enemies with paperwork and careful planning.
It wasn't much. But it was something.
And sometimes, in Birmingham in 1922, something was all you could hope for.