Jimmy met Martin Webster at midnight in the journalist's cramped office at the Birmingham Gazette, carrying two briefcases filled with evidence that would destroy Robert Chandler's life.
Webster had been working late—he always did when chasing a story—and his expression shifted from curiosity to shock as Jimmy spread documents across his desk.
"This is beyond what you gave me before," Webster said, reading through the Section D correspondence. "This isn't just wartime crimes. This is current conspiracy. Treason, possibly. Chandler has been working with intelligence services while pretending to fight corruption?"
"For years," Jimmy confirmed. "He's been playing both sides—respectable councilman publicly, government informant privately. He recruited informants across Birmingham's underworld, manipulated gang conflicts, fed information to Section D about criminal operations. All while campaigning on an anti-corruption platform."
Webster was already taking notes, his journalist's instincts fully engaged. "The hypocrisy is staggering. And you have documentation proving all of this?"
"Everything." Jimmy handed over the ledger photographs, Pierce's written testimony, the Section D correspondence, bank records showing payments. "Wartime weapons theft and murder, plus years of secret government collaboration. It's comprehensive and damning. The story writes itself."
"Almost too perfectly," Webster observed, looking up sharply. "Which makes me wonder—why are you giving me this now? Your original timeline was two weeks for me to investigate. It's been eight days. What changed?"
Jimmy had anticipated this question and prepared an answer that was mostly true. "Chandler discovered I was investigating him. He threatened me—tried to blackmail me into stopping. That accelerated my timeline. I needed to give you everything before he could interfere further."
"What kind of blackmail?"
"The kind that doesn't matter anymore once this story breaks." Jimmy met Webster's eyes steadily. "Print this, Martin. Print all of it. Make it impossible for Chandler to defend himself. And do it fast—within forty-eight hours if possible."
Webster studied him for a long moment, clearly suspecting there was more to the story than Jimmy was revealing. But journalists were pragmatic about sources—they cared more about the story than about protecting sources' private motivations.
"I'll need tomorrow to verify key facts and get confirmation from sources," Webster said finally. "But assuming everything checks out—and I believe it will based on what I've already verified—I can have the story ready for the day after tomorrow's morning edition. Front page, above the fold, with continued coverage inside. This is going to be massive, James. Biggest political scandal in Birmingham in years."
"Good." Jimmy stood, gathering the empty briefcases. "One more thing—when you print the story, mention Mary Cartwright. The quality inspector at BSA who died in 1917. Make sure people know she discovered Chandler's crimes and was murdered for it. Make sure her name is remembered."
"I will," Webster promised. "She deserves that much. And James? Thank you for trusting me with this. Whatever your personal stake in destroying Chandler, you're doing important work. Exposing corruption, bringing criminals to justice. That matters."
Jimmy left the Gazette offices feeling simultaneously satisfied and anxious. The story was in motion now, beyond his control, dependent on Webster's skill and the evidence's strength.
All he could do was wait and prepare for Chandler's response.
But he wasn't going to wait passively.
---
The next thirty-six hours were a carefully orchestrated campaign of misdirection and psychological warfare.
Jimmy had learned from three months working with the Shelbys that sometimes the best way to destroy an enemy was to make them destroy themselves—create circumstances where their own actions guaranteed their downfall.
Step one: Make Chandler think he'd won.
Jimmy sent a message through an intermediary to Charles Whitmore, Chandler's lawyer, indicating that he was prepared to discuss terms for surrendering the investigation.
He requested a meeting for the following afternoon—exactly twenty-four hours before Chandler's ultimatum deadline—to negotiate the specifics of how he'd destroy his evidence and convince Martin Webster to kill the story.
The message was deliberately weak, suggesting desperation and defeat. Jimmy wanted Chandler to believe that the Walsh blackmail had worked, that the threat to Jimmy's reputation had been enough to force surrender.
Step two: Create visible distance between Jimmy and the investigation.
Jimmy spent the day moving obviously around Birmingham, visiting his old haunts from his independent days, talking to contacts who weren't connected to the Shelbys.
He made sure to be seen at the library, at cafes where independent fixers met clients, at places that suggested he was distancing himself from Peaky Blinder operations.
He even had a loud argument with Arthur in the Garrison—carefully staged, with Arthur bellowing about how Jimmy's investigation had brought heat on the family and demanding he fix it.
Anyone watching would conclude that Jimmy was in trouble with the Shelbys, that his position was precarious, that he was isolated and vulnerable.
It was theater, but effective theater. Chandler had watchers throughout Birmingham, and Jimmy wanted them all reporting the same thing: the fixer was broken, defeated, ready to surrender.
Step three: Give Chandler a false target.
Through Walter Chen, Jimmy leaked information about a "backup copy" of the Chandler evidence supposedly stored in a safe deposit box at a different bank.
The information was specific enough to seem credible—box number, bank location, even the name of the clerk who'd set it up.
It was all fabricated, of course. But it gave Chandler something to focus on, something to neutralize.
Jimmy wanted him expending energy on stealing fake evidence while the real evidence was already in Martin Webster's possession, being verified and prepared for publication.
Step four: Control the narrative.
Tommy used his own contacts to spread rumors through Birmingham's underworld—stories about how the Shelbys had distanced themselves from Jimmy's investigation, how they'd never really supported it, how they were cutting loose the fixer who'd caused them problems.
The rumors were designed to make Chandler believe that Jimmy was acting alone now, without Peaky Blinder protection or resources.
It was misdirection layered on misdirection, all designed to make Chandler feel secure in his victory while the real attack was already in motion.
And throughout it all, Martin Webster worked furiously to verify evidence, contact sources, and prepare the story that would appear in tomorrow morning's Birmingham Gazette.
---
The meeting with Charles Whitmore happened at four o'clock the next afternoon in a neutral location—a private room at the Grand Hotel, expensive and discreet.
Jimmy arrived exactly on time, carrying his briefcase and wearing an expression of calculated defeat.
Whitmore was already there, along with another man Jimmy didn't recognize—probably additional legal counsel or a Section D handler. They both looked satisfied, like predators who'd cornered prey.
"Mr. Cartwright," Whitmore said pleasantly. "I'm glad you've decided to be reasonable. Councilman Chandler appreciates your cooperation."
"I don't have much choice," Jimmy said, setting his briefcase on the table with deliberate resignation. "The Walsh evidence would destroy me. I can't risk that."
"A wise decision. Now, let's discuss terms. You'll need to contact Martin Webster immediately and convince him to kill the story. We understand you've already provided him with some materials—those will need to be recovered and destroyed."
"Webster is independent," Jimmy said. "I can't control what he does with information once I've given it to him. But I can tell him the evidence was fabricated, that I was mistaken about Chandler's involvement. That might be enough to make him question the story's validity."
"It will need to be more than 'might be enough,'" the other man said sharply. "We need guarantees that the story dies completely."
"I'll do my best," Jimmy said, letting frustration show. "But I'm not a miracle worker. Webster is a professional journalist. If he's already verified the information independently—"
"Then you should have thought about that before giving it to him," Whitmore interrupted. "Councilman Chandler expects complete cooperation, Mr. Cartwright. The Walsh evidence remains on the table unless you deliver what you promised."
Jimmy let the silence stretch, let them think he was wrestling with impossible demands. Then he pulled out papers from his briefcase—forged correspondence that appeared to be from Martin Webster, expressing doubts about the story and requesting additional verification before proceeding.
"Webster sent me this yesterday," Jimmy lied smoothly. "He's got concerns about the sources. I think I can convince him to hold the story indefinitely if I can provide alternative explanations for the evidence I gave him."
Whitmore and his companion examined the forged letters with satisfaction. They saw what they wanted to see—confirmation that their intimidation had worked, that Jimmy was complying, that the threat was being neutralized.
"Good," Whitmore said. "Contact Webster tonight. Kill the story. And Mr. Cartwright? If we discover you've tried to deceive us, the Walsh evidence goes public immediately. And Councilman Chandler has other resources—resources that could make your life very difficult in ways beyond reputation damage."
"I understand," Jimmy said quietly. "I'll take care of it."
He left the meeting and walked back to his office through the late afternoon streets, feeling the weight of the performance he'd just delivered.
Chandler thought he'd won. Thought Jimmy was broken and compliant. Thought the threat had been neutralized.
By tomorrow morning, he'd discover how wrong he was.
---
That evening, Jimmy gathered the Shelby family one last time before the story broke. They met at Tommy's house, tension and anticipation thick in the air.
This was it—the culmination of three months' work, the moment they'd destroy Robert Chandler completely.
"Webster's story goes to press in four hours," Jimmy reported. "Morning edition of the Gazette. Front page story about Chandler's wartime crimes and his secret work with Section D. It's comprehensive, documented, and devastating."
"And Chandler thinks you've surrendered?" Tommy asked.
"Completely. I just left a meeting with his lawyer where I promised to kill the story. They believe I'm broken and compliant. They won't realize they've been deceived until they read tomorrow's newspaper."
"Beautiful," John said with genuine admiration. "You let them think they won right up until the moment they lost. That's cold, professor."
"It's thorough," Jimmy corrected. "Chandler tried to back me into a corner with the Walsh blackmail. I responded by making him feel secure enough to lower his guard. Now he'll wake up tomorrow morning to a newspaper story that destroys everything he's built."
"What about the Walsh evidence?" Polly asked. "Even if Chandler is ruined, he could still release it out of spite."
"He could," Jimmy agreed. "But it won't matter. Once people read about Chandler's crimes—once they understand he's a murderer and a traitor who worked with intelligence services while pretending to fight corruption—anything he says about me will look like desperate retaliation. Who's going to believe a documented criminal making accusations against the investigator who exposed him?"
Arthur laughed. "You've thought of everything, haven't you? Every angle, every response, every possible move Chandler could make."
"That's what you pay me for," Jimmy said. "To think three moves ahead and prepare for every contingency."
"There's one contingency you haven't prepared for," Tommy observed quietly. "What happens to you after this? Once Chandler is destroyed and Mary has justice, what's your next move?"
Jimmy was quiet for a moment, considering the question honestly. "I stay. Keep working for the family. Keep solving problems that violence can't solve. This is where I belong now—I understand that. The life I had before, the independence I tried to maintain, that's gone. But this—"
He gestured at the assembled family. "—this is real. This is worth keeping."
"Even after everything?" Ada asked gently. "After police raids and traitors and threats? After compromising every principle you thought you had? You still want to stay?"
"Especially after all that," Jimmy said. "Because you stood by me. Gave me resources to achieve justice when no one else would. Trusted me to solve impossible problems. That loyalty—that belonging—is worth more than independence or respectability."
Tommy stood and extended his hand. "Then welcome home, Mr. Cartwright. Officially and permanently. You're family now, not just an employee. That means something in this organization."
Jimmy shook his hand, feeling the finality of the commitment. He was a Peaky Blinder. Not temporarily, not conditionally, but actually and completely.
The transformation that had started with signing a contract three months ago was finally complete.
"Now," Tommy said, pulling out whiskey and glasses, "we drink. Tomorrow, Robert Chandler wakes up to the destruction of everything he's built. Tonight, we celebrate justice for Mary Cartwright and the addition of a proper strategist to this family."
They drank and talked late into the night, sharing stories and plans and the easy camaraderie of people who'd fought together and survived.
Jimmy felt the warmth of acceptance, of belonging, of finally finding a place where his particular skills were valued and his complicated morality was understood.
Near midnight, he excused himself and walked to St. Mary's Cemetery one last time. The grave was dark and quiet, the city's smoke turning the stars invisible.
He knelt and placed fresh roses—the last ones he'd need to bring for a while.
"It's done, Mary," he said quietly. "Tomorrow morning, everyone in Birmingham will know what Chandler did. They'll know about the weapons theft, about Section D, about the murder of a nineteen-year-old girl who tried to do the right thing. Your name will be in the newspaper. Your story will be told. Justice—real justice, not the kind courts provide—is finally yours."
The cemetery was silent. No response from the dead, no sign that Mary heard or cared. But Jimmy felt lighter anyway, like a burden he'd carried for five years was finally lifting.
"I joined a gang to destroy him," Jimmy continued. "Became the kind of person I used to arrest when I worked for solicitors. Compromised every principle I thought I had. But I'd do it all again, Mary. For you. Because you deserved someone who'd fight for justice when the systems failed. You deserved someone who'd spend three months planning revenge and call it love."
He stood, adjusted his spectacles—a habit he'd never break—and looked at the gravestone one last time.
"Goodbye, Mary. Rest now. It's finished."
He walked away from the cemetery, back toward Birmingham's smoke and light and the life he'd built among criminals and killers.
Tomorrow would bring headlines and scandal and Chandler's inevitable attempts at defense. But tonight, Jimmy Cartwright—fixer, forger, Peaky Blinder—had achieved what he'd set out to do.
Justice for Mary.
And in the process, he'd found something unexpected: a family. A place. A purpose beyond revenge.
It wasn't redemption. It wasn't forgiveness for the Walsh case or absolution for his crimes. But it was something.
And something, in Birmingham in 1923, was more than most people ever got.
---
The Birmingham Gazette hit the streets at six o'clock the next morning. The headline was devastating in its simplicity:
COUNCILMAN CHANDLER: TRAITOR, MURDERER, THIEFExclusive Investigation Reveals Years of Corruption and Crime
Below the headline was a photograph of the original ledger page, showing Robert Chandler's handwriting documenting weapons sales. And below that, the first paragraph:
Birmingham City Councilman Robert Chandler, long known for his anti-corruption crusade, has been exposed as one of the city's most prolific criminals. An extensive investigation by the Birmingham Gazette has uncovered evidence of wartime weapons theft, black market sales to enemy nations, the murder of a young factory worker who discovered his crimes, and years of secret collaboration with government intelligence services while publicly campaigning against the very corruption he himself embodied.
The story continued for three full pages—meticulously documented, carefully sourced, impossible to dismiss as rumor or fabrication.
Martin Webster had done exceptional work, verifying everything, interviewing witnesses, building an airtight case that destroyed Chandler's reputation with surgical precision.
The section about Mary was on page two:
Among Chandler's victims was Mary Elizabeth Cartwright, age 19, a quality inspector at the BSA factory who discovered discrepancies in weapons production that led her to uncover Chandler's theft operation. On September 14, 1917, Chandler murdered Miss Cartwright by pushing her into factory machinery, staging the scene to appear as an industrial accident. Police investigation at the time was cursory, and Miss Cartwright's death was dismissed as just another factory tragedy.
Miss Cartwright's brother, James Cartwright, provided crucial evidence for this investigation, including the original ledger documenting Chandler's crimes. "Mary died for trying to do the right thing," Mr. Cartwright stated. "She deserved justice, and she deserved to be remembered as more than just another factory accident. This story ensures both."
Jimmy read the article in his office above Morrison's, watching the sun rise over Birmingham and imagining Chandler waking up to discover his world had ended.
By now, police would be preparing arrest warrants. Politicians would be distancing themselves. Section D would be scrambling to cut ties and protect their own involvement.
And Chandler—respectable, powerful, untouchable Chandler—would be realizing that Jimmy Cartwright had destroyed him.
The phone rang at half past seven. Tommy.
"Have you seen it?"
"I'm reading it now," Jimmy said. "Webster did excellent work. It's comprehensive and devastating."
"Police are at Chandler's house," Tommy reported. "My contacts say they're executing search warrants, seizing documents, preparing formal charges. And the political fallout is already starting—three council members are demanding his immediate resignation."
"Good."
"Charles Whitmore called me an hour ago. Apparently Chandler is screaming about being set up, about how the Shelbys manufactured evidence. No one's listening. The story is too well-documented, the evidence too strong. He's finished, Mr. Cartwright. Completely and irrevocably."
Jimmy let the satisfaction settle. This was what he'd worked for. What he'd compromised his principles for. What he'd joined the Peaky Blinders to achieve.
"What about the Walsh evidence?" Jimmy asked. "Has Chandler tried to release it?"
"He tried. Sent it to three newspapers this morning. All three contacted us to verify before publishing, and we provided context—desperate criminal making false accusations against the investigator who exposed him. None of them are running with it. The story is dead."
"Then it's over," Jimmy said quietly. "The investigation is complete. The justice is achieved. Mary can rest."
"And you?" Tommy asked. "Can you rest? Or are you already thinking three moves ahead to the next problem?"
Jimmy smiled despite himself. "There's always a next problem, Tommy. That's why you keep me around."
"True enough. Come to the office when you're ready. We have work to do—that second traitor is still out there, and Inspector Morrison's case against us still needs defending. But take a few hours first. Enjoy your victory. You've earned it."
After hanging up, Jimmy sat in his office surrounded by papers and smoke and the smell of blood from Morrison's butcher shop below.
He'd destroyed Robert Chandler. Achieved justice for Mary. Proven that intelligence was superior to violence, that careful planning could accomplish what bullets couldn't.
But he'd also proven Mrs. Price right—he'd become exactly what he claimed to oppose. A criminal. A gangster's fixer. A man who solved problems through manipulation and blackmail and carefully constructed deception.
The difference was that he no longer pretended otherwise. He knew what he was. Accepted it. Even embraced it, because this life—complicated and dangerous and morally compromised—was the only life where he truly belonged.
The blood seeping through his ceiling seemed appropriate somehow. A reminder that violence was always beneath the surface, even in a world solved with paperwork and clever solutions.
Jimmy stubbed out his cigarette, gathered his briefcase, and headed toward the Shelby offices. Toward family. Toward work. Toward the life he'd chosen and the people who'd accepted him despite—or because of—everything he was.
Robert Chandler was destroyed. Mary had justice. And Jimmy Cartwright—the devil's advocate, the clever fixer, the man who never killed but destroyed nonetheless—was exactly where he was supposed to be.
In the smoke and the darkness, solving problems for criminals and calling it justice.
It wasn't redemption.
But it was enough.