The aftermath of Robert Chandler's destruction played out over the following week like a Greek tragedy staged in Birmingham's industrial smoke.
Jimmy watched from the margins as the carefully constructed edifice of Chandler's life collapsed piece by piece, each day bringing new revelations and fresh humiliations.
Day one: Police arrested Chandler at his home on charges of conspiracy, corruption, and suspicion of murder.
The Birmingham Post ran a photograph of him being led away in handcuffs, his face twisted with rage and disbelief. Patricia Chandler was nowhere to be seen—already in London, filing for divorce, beyond her husband's reach.
Day two: Three more witnesses came forward—former BSA workers who'd suspected something wrong with Mary's death but had been too frightened to speak at the time. Their testimony corroborated the murder narrative, turning suspicion into near-certainty.
Day three: Section D officially denied any connection to Chandler, releasing a statement claiming he'd been a rogue actor who misrepresented his authority.
The denial was transparent nonsense, but politically necessary. No one believed it, but no one could prove otherwise without documentation the government would never acknowledge.
Day four: Councilman Chandler resigned his position "for health reasons." The resignation letter, leaked to newspapers, was bitter and accusatory, claiming the Shelbys had manufactured evidence and destroyed an innocent man.
Public reaction was swift and contemptuous—no one believed the disgraced councilman's protestations.
Day five: Harold Pierce gave an interview to the Birmingham Gazette, providing additional details about the weapons theft operation. His testimony was measured and credible, the kind of evidence that made Chandler's guilt undeniable.
Day six: Dmitri Volkov, the Russian arms buyer, confirmed from prison that he'd purchased stolen weapons from Chandler during the war. His testimony came with the implicit understanding that his sentence would be quietly reduced—Tommy's promised payment for cooperation.
Day seven: Chandler's lawyer petitioned for bail, citing his client's previously unblemished reputation and community ties. The petition was denied.
Robert Chandler would await trial in Birmingham's city jail, stripped of freedom and dignity, reduced from powerful councilman to common criminal.
Jimmy read each day's developments in the newspapers, feeling satisfaction mixed with something more complicated.
This was justice—or the closest approximation Birmingham could provide. But it was also destruction, methodical and complete, executed with the same cold precision he'd once used to process death notifications in France.
The difference was that this time, he'd chosen the target. This time, the destruction was personal.
---
One week after the story broke, Tommy called a family meeting at the Garrison. They gathered in a private room upstairs—Tommy, Arthur, John, Polly, Ada, and Jimmy.
The atmosphere was celebratory but also serious, the kind of gathering where business got conducted alongside whiskey.
"First order of business," Tommy said, raising his glass. "To Mr. Cartwright, who solved an impossible problem without firing a shot. Who proved that intelligence is worth more than violence, and who gave us a masterclass in strategic destruction. The Chandler investigation was bloody brilliant from start to finish."
They drank, and Jimmy felt the warmth of recognition, of success acknowledged by people whose respect he'd earned through demonstrated competence.
"Second order," Tommy continued, "we need to discuss the traitor situation. Mr. Cartwright identified Billy Kitchen and arranged his fake death. Kitchen was innocent of the recent leaks. Someone else has been feeding information to Section D, and we still haven't identified them."
"I've been thinking about that," Jimmy said, pulling out his notebook. "The information that leaked after Kitchen's 'death' was specific to operational details—shipments, enforcement activities, gambling operations. But nothing strategic leaked. Nothing about the Chandler investigation, nothing about family planning sessions. That suggests—"
"The traitor is someone with operational access but not strategic access," Polly finished. "Someone in the betting shop or enforcement division, not someone in family meetings."
"Exactly. And the leaks stopped after the police raid." Jimmy flipped through pages of analysis. "Either the traitor is lying low because of increased scrutiny, or they were among the people we lost during the evacuation. Several soldiers scattered after the raid—relocated to other cities, went underground, disappeared. One of them is probably our traitor."
"Can you identify which one?" Arthur asked.
"Give me two weeks and access to Section D communication patterns. I can narrow it down. But honestly?" Jimmy closed his notebook. "The traitor is less important now than they were before. Section D's connection to Chandler is exposed. Their credibility in Birmingham is damaged. Any intelligence they gather now is compromised by association with a disgraced criminal. They'll be more cautious about recruiting our people, and our people will be more cautious about being recruited."
"So we won," John said. "Chandler destroyed, Section D weakened, our operations continuing despite Morrison's raid. That's a win by any measure."
"It's a win," Tommy agreed. "But wins create new problems. The power vacuum Chandler left—other politicians will try to fill it. Some will be allies, some enemies. We need to be strategic about who rises to prominence in Birmingham's government."
"That's a problem for later," Polly said. "Today, we celebrate. Today, we acknowledge that Jimmy Cartwright is officially one of us—not an employee, not a consultant, but family."
She raised her glass to Jimmy. "You've proven yourself ten times over. Welcome home, lad."
The simple acknowledgment hit harder than Jimmy expected. He'd spent three years as an independent operator, neutral and isolated, belonging nowhere.
Then three months as a probationary Peaky Blinder, proving his worth while maintaining emotional distance. But now—truly now—he belonged. Was accepted. Was home.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "For giving me the resources to achieve justice for Mary. For standing with me when Chandler tried to destroy me. For making me part of something larger than revenge."
"Family isn't about blood," Ada said softly. "It's about loyalty and choice and standing together in the darkness. You've done all that, James. You're one of us now, whether you're comfortable with it or not."
"I'm comfortable with it," Jimmy admitted. "Surprisingly so. I thought joining a gang would feel like moral compromise and surrender. Instead, it feels like finally finding where I belong."
They drank and talked late into the afternoon, the conversation flowing between business and personal, strategy and stories.
Jimmy found himself relaxing in ways he hadn't allowed himself to relax in years—the constant vigilance of independence fading, replaced by the comfort of belonging.
Near evening, Tommy pulled him aside for a private conversation in the Garrison's back office.
"I want to discuss your future," Tommy said, lighting a cigarette. "You've proven yourself as an investigator and strategist. The Chandler situation demonstrated skills beyond document forgery—you orchestrated a complex operation involving multiple moving parts, anticipated enemy responses, and achieved total victory. That's rare."
"Thank you."
"So the question is what comes next. Do you want to continue as our fixer—solving problems as they arise, handling individual cases? Or do you want something more strategic?"
Tommy leaned forward. "I need someone who thinks three moves ahead. Someone who can plan operations, anticipate complications, identify opportunities before they're obvious. Someone who sees the chess board while everyone else sees chaos. I think you're that person."
Jimmy considered the offer carefully. "You're asking me to be your strategist. Your planner. Not just solving problems but helping you avoid them in the first place."
"Exactly. You'd still handle individual cases when needed—your forgery skills are too valuable to waste. But primarily, you'd be thinking strategically about Shelby operations, expansion, political positioning. Making sure we're always three moves ahead of our enemies."
"That's a significant role. A position of real power and influence."
"It is," Tommy agreed. "Which is why I'm offering it to you. You've earned it. And frankly, I need someone I can trust who isn't family by blood. Someone who joined us by choice, who stays out of loyalty rather than obligation. That independence of perspective is valuable."
Jimmy thought about it—really thought, considering implications and complications. A strategic role would mean deeper involvement in Shelby operations, more responsibility, potentially more danger.
But it would also mean influence, the ability to shape how problems were solved, the chance to ensure that intelligence was valued over violence whenever possible.
"I accept," he said finally. "On one condition—I maintain veto power over operations that violate my personal ethics. Children, sexual violence, the lines I won't cross. If I say no to something, that no is respected."
"Agreed. Your ethics are part of why I'm offering this role. You provide a perspective we need—reminding us that not every problem requires bloodshed, that sometimes the clever solution is better than the violent one."
Tommy extended his hand. "Welcome to senior leadership, Mr. Cartwright. Try not to let it go to your head."
Jimmy shook his hand, feeling the weight of new responsibility settling over him like Birmingham's smoke.
He'd come to the Shelbys seeking revenge. He was leaving this conversation as their chief strategist, with influence over operations that affected all of Birmingham's underworld.
The transformation was complete and irreversible.
---
That evening, Jimmy returned to his office above Morrison's for what he knew would be one of the last times as a regular occurrence.
Tommy had offered him office space at Shelby headquarters—proper space, befitting his new role—but Jimmy wanted to maintain his private office as a refuge, a place to think without the betting shop chaos surrounding him.
Mrs. Price was waiting in his office with tea and Welsh cakes, her expression knowing.
"So you've accepted, then," she said, not a question. "The strategic role Tommy offered. I can see it in how you're carrying yourself—more weight, more responsibility."
"How did you know he'd offer that?"
"Because I'm not blind, cariad. I've watched you grow from isolated fixer to Shelby strategist over three months. It was inevitable." She poured tea with practiced efficiency. "The question is whether you're happy about it or terrified."
"Both," Jimmy admitted. "This is so far from what I imagined my life would be. I was supposed to be a solicitor, respectable and legitimate, helping people through proper legal channels. Instead, I'm a gangster's strategist, planning criminal operations and calling it justice."
"But are you happy?" Mrs. Price pressed.
Jimmy considered the question honestly. "Yes. Surprisingly, genuinely yes. I have purpose, belonging, the ability to ensure that problems get solved intelligently rather than violently. I'm using my skills for something that matters to people I care about. That's more than I had as an independent operator."
"Then that's all that matters." Mrs. Price stood, preparing to leave. "Your father would be proud, you know. Not of the criminality, perhaps, but of the man you've become. Principled despite working for criminals. Loyal to people who earned that loyalty. Using your brilliant mind to solve impossible problems. That's worth something."
After she left, Jimmy sat alone in his office, surrounded by filing cabinets full of secrets and the smell of blood from below.
He pulled out the photograph of Mary he kept in his desk drawer—young and smiling, taken two months before she died.
"I did it," he told the photograph quietly. "Chandler is destroyed. You have justice. Your name is remembered. Everything I promised at your grave, I delivered."
The photograph didn't answer, but Jimmy felt a weight lifting anyway. For five years, Mary's ghost had driven him—motivated his work, shaped his choices, haunted his dreams.
But now, with justice achieved and Chandler ruined, the ghost was quiet.
Mary could rest. And so could Jimmy.
He filed the photograph away carefully and pulled out fresh paper, beginning notes for his new strategic role.
Tommy would want analysis of Birmingham's political landscape post-Chandler, identification of potential allies and enemies, plans for expanding Shelby influence into newly available territory.
The work was already beginning, and Jimmy found himself energized rather than exhausted. This was what he was built for—thinking strategically, planning operations, solving problems through intelligence rather than violence.
He worked late into the night, filling pages with observations and plans, barely noticing when midnight passed and Birmingham's streets grew quiet.
Finally, near two in the morning, he set down his pen and stretched, feeling accomplished and purposeful.
The blood had stopped seeping through the ceiling hours ago. Morrison closed his shop at seven, and the building was silent except for Jimmy's movements.
He locked his office carefully, descended the narrow stairs, and stepped out into Birmingham's night.
The city was dark and smoke-filled as always, but somehow it felt different now. Not oppressive, but protective.
This was his city now, his territory, his home. These streets and alleys and smoke-choked avenues belonged to the Shelbys, and Jimmy was a Shelby now.
He walked back to Mrs. Price's boarding house through the familiar routes, past the Garrison where lights still burned in upper windows, past the cemetery where Mary rested with fresh roses on her grave, past the library where Nell Morrison worked in a world Jimmy no longer belonged to.
The boarding house was dark and quiet when he arrived. He climbed to his room, undressed, and lay down without turning on lights.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges—the second traitor to find, Morrison's case to defend against, strategic planning for Shelby expansion. Always another problem, another crisis, another impossible situation requiring his particular skills.
But tonight, Jimmy Cartwright slept peacefully for the first time in five years.
---
Three weeks later, Jimmy stood in Birmingham City Council chambers watching as the emergency session convened to address the Chandler scandal.
The public gallery was packed with journalists, citizens, and various interested parties all eager to see how Birmingham's government would respond to such spectacular corruption.
Jimmy sat in the back row, anonymous in his well-worn suit, just another concerned citizen attending a public meeting.
No one recognized him as the investigator who'd exposed Chandler, the Peaky Blinder strategist, the man who'd orchestrated everything from the shadows.
He preferred it that way.
The council president called the meeting to order and addressed the assembly with appropriate gravitas.
"We gather today to address the profound breach of public trust represented by former Councilman Robert Chandler's crimes. This council will conduct a thorough investigation into how such corruption went undetected, what reforms are necessary to prevent future occurrences, and how we can restore public confidence in Birmingham's government."
It was all political theater, carefully scripted, designed to demonstrate concern without actually changing anything fundamental.
Jimmy recognized the performance for what it was—damage control masquerading as reform.
But he also recognized an opportunity.
Birmingham's government was vulnerable now, reactive rather than proactive, desperate to appear clean and functional. That vulnerability could be exploited—not through violence or intimidation, but through strategic positioning.
The Shelbys could identify candidates to support, help elect allies to fill Chandler's vacant seat, gradually shift the political landscape in their favor.
It would take time and careful planning, but it was possible. And it was exactly the kind of strategic thinking Tommy had hired him to provide.
Jimmy made notes in his worn notebook, already sketching plans and contingencies. The work never ended. There was always another angle to consider, another opportunity to exploit, another problem requiring elegant solutions.
The meeting droned on—politicians making speeches, citizens raising concerns, journalists scribbling notes.
Jimmy stayed for an hour, gathering intelligence and assessing personalities, then slipped out quietly and walked back toward Small Heath.
He stopped at the cemetery on his way, as had become his habit. Mary's grave was well-tended now, with fresh flowers every week and the grass neatly trimmed.
The headstone gleamed in Birmingham's filtered sunlight, clean and dignified.
"The council's meeting about Chandler today," Jimmy told the grave conversationally. "Lots of posturing and promises to reform. Nothing will actually change, but at least they're acknowledging the corruption. That's something."
A robin landed on Mary's headstone briefly before flying away. Jimmy watched it go, feeling the last remnants of grief and guilt finally loosening their grip.
"I'm doing well," he continued. "Working for the Shelbys as their strategist now. It's good work—challenging, meaningful, using my skills properly. I think you'd approve, Mary. Or maybe you'd be horrified that I joined a gang. Hard to say. You always were unpredictable."
He smiled at the memory—Mary arguing passionately about worker's rights, about fairness and justice, about how systems needed changing from within.
She'd been so certain that good intentions and correct principles were enough to change the world.
"You were wrong about that, you know," Jimmy said softly. "Good intentions aren't enough. Sometimes you need strategy, leverage, the willingness to get your hands dirty in service of larger goals. Sometimes you need people like me—people who understand that justice and law aren't the same thing, that doing right sometimes requires doing wrong."
The cemetery was quiet except for distant factory sounds. Jimmy stood a moment longer, then nodded farewell to the headstone.
"I'll visit less often now," he said. "Not because I'm forgetting you, but because I'm moving forward. You'd want that, I think. You'd want me to live rather than spending my life mourning. So that's what I'm doing. Living. Working. Belonging to something larger than revenge."
He walked away without looking back, through the cemetery gates and onto Birmingham's streets.
The spring afternoon was warm, the smoke less oppressive than usual, and Jimmy felt something he hadn't felt in years: contentment.
Not happiness, exactly. Not peace or forgiveness or redemption. But contentment—the satisfaction of meaningful work, loyal companions, purpose beyond survival.
It was enough.
---
The Shelby offices were busy when Jimmy arrived, the usual controlled chaos of betting operations and enforcement coordination.
He climbed to the second floor, nodding to soldiers who now greeted him by name, and settled at his desk in the corner.
The desk was larger now, positioned with a better view of the main office, reflecting his elevated status.
Papers covered the surface—strategic analyses, operation plans, intelligence reports from Tommy's extensive network. Jimmy organized them automatically, his mind already working through priorities and timelines.
"Mr. Cartwright." Polly appeared at his desk, carrying a folder. "Tommy wants your analysis of the council situation. Who we should support for Chandler's vacant seat, what leverage we have with potential candidates, timeline for the special election."
"I'm already working on it," Jimmy said, pulling out his notes. "I attended the council meeting this morning. Observed the players, assessed vulnerabilities. I'll have a full report by tomorrow."
"Good." Polly studied him for a moment, her expression softer than usual. "You've settled in well. Found your place here. I wasn't sure you would—you were so determined to maintain distance, to keep one foot in your old life. But you've committed fully now."
"I have," Jimmy agreed. "This is where I belong. Took me three months to accept it, but I understand now. Family isn't about blood or history. It's about choosing to stand together, to work toward common goals, to protect each other against threats. The Shelbys gave me that when I had nothing."
"And what did you give us?"
"A better way to solve problems," Jimmy said. "Proof that intelligence can triumph over violence. Someone who thinks three moves ahead and plans for contingencies. A strategist who remembers that people aren't just assets or obstacles—they're complicated individuals with motivations that can be understood and influenced."
"All true." Polly smiled slightly. "Also, you gave us someone who keeps Tommy from becoming too ruthless, who reminds Arthur that violence isn't always the answer, who provides moral perspective without moral superiority. That's valuable, Mr. Cartwright. Don't underestimate it."
After she left, Jimmy returned to his work, feeling the weight and comfort of belonging.
This was his life now—analyzing political landscapes, planning operations, solving impossible problems for people he'd come to love despite every intention to remain emotionally distant.
Arthur stopped by in the afternoon with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. "Heard you went to the council meeting. Tommy's orders or personal interest?"
"Both," Jimmy admitted, accepting a glass. "I wanted to see how they'd handle the scandal, what opportunities might emerge. Strategic observation."
"See, that's the difference between you and me," Arthur said, settling into the chair beside Jimmy's desk. "I'd have gone to the meeting thinking about who deserved a beating. You go thinking about who deserves supporting or undermining. Different approaches to the same problem."
"Your way has its place," Jimmy acknowledged. "Sometimes violence is the answer—when it's surgical, targeted, sending a specific message. But most problems require subtler solutions. That's where I come in."
"That's why we work well together." Arthur raised his glass. "To the Peaky Blinders. Most feared gang in Birmingham, not just because we're violent bastards, but because we're clever violent bastards with a strategist who thinks like a solicitor and fights like a chess player."
They drank, and Jimmy felt that warmth again—acceptance, belonging, the casual camaraderie of people who'd earned each other's trust through demonstrated loyalty.
The afternoon wore on. John stopped by with questions about a complicated enforcement situation that required strategy rather than force.
Ada arrived with political intelligence from her left-wing contacts. Tommy called Jimmy into his office twice for consultations on various matters.
It was routine now, this life. No longer strange or uncomfortable, but familiar. Home.
Near evening, as the offices began emptying and the betting shop closed for the night, Jimmy gathered his briefcase and prepared to leave. Tommy caught him at the stairs.
"Good work on the Chandler situation," Tommy said. "Start to finish, it was executed perfectly. Strategic planning, patient development, perfect timing. That's the standard I expect going forward."
"You'll have it," Jimmy promised.
"I know I will. Because you're a Peaky Blinder now, Mr. Cartwright. Not just by contract or convenience, but by choice and commitment. That means something in this organization."
"It means everything," Jimmy said quietly. "Family means everything."
He walked out of the Shelby offices into Birmingham's spring evening, briefcase in hand, heading toward Mrs. Price's for dinner and then his own office for a few more hours of work.
The streets were familiar now, the faces recognizable, the rhythms of Small Heath's life as natural as breathing.
This was home. These people were family. This work—complicated and dangerous and morally ambiguous—was his purpose.
He'd destroyed Robert Chandler and achieved justice for Mary. But more than that, he'd found himself in the process.
Discovered who James Cartwright really was beneath the careful respectability and defensive isolation.
He was a strategist. A problem-solver. A man who used intelligence as a weapon and called it mercy. A fixer who'd found his place among fixers, criminals who'd found his place among criminals.
The devil's advocate, arguing for solutions that didn't require bloodshed while standing alongside people who shed blood when necessary.
It wasn't redemption. It wasn't forgiveness. It wasn't anything resembling the respectable life he'd once imagined.
But it was real. It was honest. It was his.
And as Jimmy Cartwright walked through Birmingham's smoke and shadow toward whatever problems tomorrow would bring, he finally—after years of searching—felt at peace.
The ghost was quiet. The reckoning was complete. The belonging was earned.
Everything else was just details.
---
Six months later, Jimmy stood in his office above Morrison's butcher shop, blood seeping through the ceiling as it had the day Tommy Shelby first walked through his door.
Some things never changed.
But everything else had.
The office was the same—cramped and paper-filled, smelling of cigarettes and ink. But Jimmy was different.
Confident rather than defensive, belonging rather than isolated, purposeful rather than merely surviving.
A knock at the door. Three raps, evenly spaced.
"Come in," Jimmy called, not looking up from the document he was forging.
A woman entered—middle-aged, terrified, clutching a child's hand. "They said you're the man who fixes things. I need help. My husband—he's dangerous. I need to disappear before he kills me."
Jimmy set down his fountain pen and gestured to the chair. The woman sat, the child clinging to her side, both of them desperate and frightened and hoping that this strange man in his blood-scented office could perform the miracle of salvation.
"Tell me everything," Jimmy said, pulling out his notebook. "Names, dates, circumstances. The more I know, the better I can help."
The woman began talking, pouring out her story of fear and violence and impossible circumstances.
Jimmy listened carefully, taking notes in his precise shorthand, already formulating plans.
He'd help her. Forge new identities, arrange passage to safety, provide resources to start over. He'd do it pro bono, as he always did for cases involving abuse and children, because some lines couldn't be crossed and some people deserved help regardless of ability to pay.
It was the work of a fixer. Of a criminal. Of a Peaky Blinder.
But it was also the work of a decent man trying to do right in a world that rarely rewarded decency.
Jimmy Cartwright had found his place in Birmingham's smoke and darkness. Found family among criminals. Found purpose in solving problems that legitimate systems couldn't or wouldn't address.
The blood still seeped through his ceiling, reminding him that violence was always present, always available, always the easy solution.
But Jimmy had proven—to himself, to the Shelbys, to Birmingham—that intelligence was better than violence. That careful planning could achieve what bullets couldn't. That sometimes the pen really was mightier than the sword.
And infinitely more cruel when wielded with precision and purpose.
"I can help you," Jimmy told the terrified woman. "Give me three days. I'll arrange everything—new identities, safe passage, resources to rebuild. You and your child will disappear completely, and your husband will never find you."
The woman began crying with relief. The child looked at Jimmy with wide, hopeful eyes.
And Jimmy Cartwright—former solicitor's clerk, disbarred forger, Peaky Blinder strategist, the devil's advocate—felt that familiar satisfaction of meaningful work.
The work continued. The problems never ended. And Jimmy wouldn't have it any other way.
He was exactly where he belonged.