Webb's classroom looked different with the student desks pushed against the walls and campaign posters covering the chalkboard. The transformation had happened gradually over three weeks—first just a corner with volunteer sign-up sheets, then half the room reorganized for planning sessions, now the entire space converted to unofficial headquarters.
Lesson plans and arithmetic tests competed for desk space with voter registration lists and speech drafts.
Jimmy arrived late afternoon in late July to find the room already crowded with activity. Dr. Helen Foster stood at the teacher's desk coordinating volunteers—four women from the Reform Club addressing envelopes while two university students organized campaign literature.
Webb himself was practicing his announcement speech in the corner, reading from notes Jimmy had written, his voice uncertain despite the words' confidence.
Foster noticed Jimmy first. "Mr. Cartwright. Good timing. We're launching officially tomorrow at the Market Hall rally."
"How's the candidate holding up?"
"Terrified. Determined. Idealistic beyond all reason." She smiled slightly. "In other words, perfect for our purposes. The authenticity can't be faked."
Jimmy crossed to where Webb stood rehearsing, listening to him stumble over a phrase about "comprehensive reform through collaborative governance." The language was too formal, too careful.
Webb sounded like he was defending a thesis rather than talking to factory workers.
"Stop," Jimmy said quietly.
Webb looked up from his notes. "Something wrong?"
"Everything. You're using my words instead of yours. Sounds like you memorized an essay." Jimmy pulled out his fountain pen and began marking up the speech. "Here—where you say 'comprehensive reform through collaborative governance,' just say 'working together to make Birmingham better.' Same meaning, but you sound like a human being instead of a bureaucrat."
"But comprehensive reform through collaborative governance is more precise—"
"It's more pretentious. Precision matters in classroom, but voters want authenticity, not vocabulary."
Jimmy continued editing, simplifying phrases, cutting anything that sounded like it came from a political manual. "You're a teacher. Talk like one. These are families you see every day, not colleagues you're trying to impress."
Webb watched Jimmy work, expression troubled. "You're making it simpler. Less detailed."
"I'm making it effective. Complex policy explanations belong in committee meetings. Campaign speeches need emotional connection and memorable phrases."
Jimmy handed back the edited version. "Try it now. Read it like you're explaining homework to parents who work double shifts and don't have time for complexity."
Webb read the revised speech aloud. It flowed better—shorter sentences, concrete examples, language that matched how he actually talked in conversation. But his delivery remained stiff, the words not quite his own despite their simplicity.
"Better," Jimmy said. "But you're still too honest."
"How can someone be too honest?"
"You're telling people exactly what you can and cannot accomplish. Politicians promise everything, deliver what they can, and blame opposition for the rest. That's how the game works."
Webb set down the speech. "I won't lie to people. That's the corruption I'm running against."
"It's not lying. It's optimism." Jimmy leaned against a student desk. "When you say 'I'll fight for better school funding,' you're not guaranteeing success. You're committing to the fight. The outcome depends on factors beyond your control—council votes, budget constraints, opposition. But the commitment is honest."
"That sounds like splitting hairs."
"That's politics. The difference between 'I'll achieve this' and 'I'll fight for this' is everything. One's a lie you can't keep. The other's a promise you can fulfill even in defeat."
Jimmy pulled out his notebook. "Tomorrow's rally will have two hundred people, mostly working-class families and Reform Club progressives. They want to believe Birmingham can improve. Give them that belief. Show them you care and you'll work hard. The details can wait for committee meetings."
Dr. Foster had been listening from across the room. She approached with a measuring look. "You're teaching him to be a politician. I thought we wanted authentic reform."
"We want electable reform," Jimmy corrected. "Webb's authenticity is his strength, but raw authenticity gets crushed by professional operators like Blackwood. He needs to learn strategic communication without losing his core integrity."
"And you're confident there's a difference?"
"I am."
Foster didn't look convinced, but she returned to organizing volunteers without further argument. Webb went back to practicing his speech, this time using simpler language that sounded more natural.
Jimmy watched him work, noting the quick learning, the intelligence that absorbed lessons even when questioning their morality.
The campaign was gaining momentum. Webb had name recognition through his teaching, respect in working-class neighborhoods, Ada's progressive networks providing volunteer labor. Blackwood's expensive posters covered wealthy wards, but Webb's grassroots organizing penetrated working-class streets where elections were actually won.
Everything proceeding according to plan.
---
The education of Martin Webb continued through August in fragments and lessons scattered across Birmingham's summer heat. Jimmy found himself spending hours with the candidate, teaching skills that felt increasingly like corruption disguised as pragmatism.
One afternoon in Webb's classroom, Jimmy spread newspapers across the desk—three different articles about Birmingham's education budget, each using identical statistics to support opposing conclusions.
"Read these," Jimmy said. "Tell me what you notice."
Webb scanned the articles, frowning. "They're using the same data to make contradictory arguments."
"Exactly. Birmingham Post says education funding increased fifteen percent over five years. Birmingham Gazette says per-student funding declined three percent during the same period. Which one's lying?"
"Neither. Total funding increased because population grew, but funding per student decreased because population grew faster than budget." Webb looked up. "That's dishonest presentation."
"That's statistics. Both claims are factually accurate. Both create completely different impressions of the same reality."
Jimmy pulled out Webb's draft position paper on school funding. "Your paper says Birmingham should increase education spending by twenty percent. Blackwood will say that's fiscally irresponsible. But if you say Birmingham should increase per-student funding to pre-war levels, you're asking for the exact same money while sounding conservative instead of radical."
"But that's manipulation."
"That's framing. You're not lying about the amount—you're presenting it in context that serves your argument." Jimmy tapped the newspapers. "Every politician does this. Every journalist. Every businessman arguing for tax breaks. The question is whether you use these tools for good purposes or bad ones."
Webb was quiet for a long moment, studying the articles. "This feels like I'm learning to deceive people."
"You're learning how communication actually works in politics. The families you want to help don't care about budget percentages—they care about whether their children get decent education.
If strategic framing helps you win the election that lets you improve schools, is that dishonest? Or is that using necessary tools to achieve moral goals?"
"I don't know," Webb admitted.
"Welcome to politics."
Another day, walking through Small Heath's market district, Jimmy explained voter targeting with brutal mathematical precision.
"You can't help everyone," Jimmy said, pointing to the crowded stalls. "Resources are limited. Time is limited. Some voters matter more than others for winning elections."
"That's fundamentally undemocratic."
"That's reality. A wealthy merchant has one vote, same as a factory worker. But the merchant knows three city councilmen, donates to four charities, and sits on boards that control jobs for two hundred families. His vote carries weight beyond the ballot box."
Jimmy pulled out his notebook, showing Webb the detailed maps he'd created. "These three wards decide most Birmingham elections. Win them and you win overall. That's where we focus resources."
"And the other wards?"
"Minimal presence. Enough to avoid looking like you've abandoned them, not enough to waste time you could spend where it matters." Jimmy traced the map's divisions. "Lawrence Blackwood owns Edgbaston through family connections. Catherine Winters has the radical labor wards. You need Small Heath, Digbeth, and Sparkbrook—working-class areas that value education and respect teachers."
Webb studied the maps, his expression conflicted. "So I appear to care about everyone while actually focusing on specific constituencies."
"You care about everyone. You just prioritize strategically." Jimmy folded the map. "If you waste time campaigning in wards you can't win, you're not being democratic. You're being stupid. The families in your target wards need you to win. That requires making hard choices about resource allocation."
"This feels wrong."
"Winning feels better."
The lessons continued. Jimmy taught Webb how to handle hostile questions by acknowledging concerns without committing to specific solutions. How to craft sound bites that newspapers would quote even when they got the context wrong.
How to position himself as reformer without threatening the business interests that actually controlled Birmingham's economy.
Webb absorbed every lesson with visible discomfort, like a student forced to study subjects that contradicted everything he'd been taught previously. But he learned.
And the learning showed in his campaign performances—speeches that resonated without overreaching, interviews that projected competence without arrogance, rallies that energized supporters without alarming moderates.
The problem was that Webb learned too well. He started noticing contradictions Jimmy hadn't intended to reveal, asking questions about funding sources and organizational structure that came too close to uncomfortable truths.
"Who's actually paying for all this?" Webb asked one evening as volunteers distributed campaign literature. "Printing costs, advertisement space, Dr. Foster's salary—it adds up to thousands of pounds. Your political action committee has been generous, but I'd like to meet the donors."
"They prefer to remain anonymous," Jimmy said smoothly. "Wealthy progressives who don't want their conservative business partners knowing they're funding reform candidates."
"That's convenient."
"That's reality for people whose livelihood depends on maintaining certain appearances." Jimmy made a note to create more elaborate cover stories. Webb was getting dangerously curious.
---
The Garrison was half-empty when Jimmy arrived on a warm August evening, the usual crowd dispersed to various Shelby operations across Birmingham. He'd arranged to meet one of Tommy's information brokers—a clerk from the city planning office who occasionally sold intelligence about construction contracts and zoning decisions.
Arthur sat at the bar nursing whiskey, his presence likely coincidental but possibly surveillance. Tommy sometimes sent Arthur to observe operations, using his brother's apparent simplicity to mask careful attention to detail.
Grace, the middle-aged barmaid who'd worked the Garrison for years, brought Jimmy's usual drink without being asked. "Quiet night, Mr. Cartwright."
"Prefer it that way sometimes."
"I imagine. All that political work must be exhausting." She wiped down the bar with practiced efficiency. "Speaking of which, I overheard something interesting last week. Two men at the corner table talking about your candidate's education policies. Specific details about school funding proposals and teacher salary increases."
Jimmy's attention sharpened. "What specifically?"
"Numbers. Percentages. The kind of detail that sounds like it came from policy papers, not campaign speeches." Grace straightened bottles behind the bar. "Struck me as odd because those policies haven't been announced yet. I've been reading the newspapers—Webb hasn't discussed teacher salaries publicly."
"You're certain?"
"I pay attention, Mr. Cartwright. Part of the job." She moved down the bar to serve another customer, leaving Jimmy with his drink and troubling implications.
Webb's position paper on teacher compensation was still in draft form, shared only with Dr. Foster and Jimmy himself. If someone was discussing specific proposals from that draft, they had access to inner circle materials.
That meant either Foster was leaking, which seemed unlikely given her professional reputation, or someone had access to documents that should be secure.
Arthur drifted over, whiskey in hand. "You look bothered."
"Grace mentioned overhearing conversation about campaign details that haven't been made public yet."
"Someone talking out of school?" Arthur's expression shifted to the focused violence that lurked beneath his generally chaotic demeanor. "Want me to find them? Discourage loose talk?"
"No. Not yet." Jimmy made notes in shorthand. "Could be innocent—someone speculating, making educated guesses. Or could be something worse."
"The traitor business from before? Billy Kitchen situation?"
"Different pattern, but similar concern. Information leaking from supposedly secure discussions." Jimmy finished his drink. "I'll investigate quietly. No point alarming everyone over speculation."
"Tommy won't like it if we've got another informant."
"Tommy won't know unless I confirm the leak is real and significant." Jimmy stood, leaving money on the bar. "Sometimes problems solve themselves. Sometimes they're actually problems. I'll determine which this is before raising alarms."
Arthur nodded, returning to his whiskey. Jimmy left the Garrison with Grace's observation echoing in his mind. Probably nothing. But probably nothing occasionally became definitely something, and by then it was usually too late for prevention.
He'd watch more carefully. Document who knew what information when. Track how opposition campaigns responded to Webb's strategy.
If there was a leak, Jimmy would find it.
If there wasn't, he'd wasted some time on paranoia. Small price for security.
---
The public debate was scheduled for late August in Council Chambers, all three declared candidates appearing before two hundred citizens and a dozen journalists. Lawrence Blackwood had experience and polish. Catherine Winters had passion and specific policy knowledge.
Martin Webb had authenticity and Jimmy's coaching.
Jimmy watched from the public gallery as Webb took his position at the left podium, clearly nervous despite three days of preparation. Blackwood stood center—the alpha position, claimed through seniority and presumption.
Winters took the right podium with the comfortable confidence of someone who'd spoken at a hundred labor meetings.
The moderator asked standard questions about housing, employment, infrastructure. Blackwood gave smooth non-answers that sounded like policy while promising nothing. Winters provided specific proposals with the detail of someone who'd actually studied the issues.
Webb struck a middle ground—acknowledging complexity while offering principles rather than solutions.
"Mr. Webb," the moderator said. "How would you address Birmingham's teacher shortage?"
Webb had prepared extensively for this question. "We need to make teaching a profession people can afford to enter and stay in. That means competitive salaries, better working conditions, and professional development opportunities.
Birmingham asks teachers to educate our future while paying them barely enough to feed their own families. That's not just economically foolish—it's morally wrong."
Good answer. Emotional without being maudlin, specific enough to sound informed without getting trapped by details. Jimmy had written the framework, but Webb's delivery made it genuine.
The audience responded positively—murmurs of agreement, a few nods.
Blackwood countered with standard fiscal conservative rhetoric about budget constraints. Winters provided salary numbers and funding mechanisms. The debate continued through questions about crime, poverty, municipal services.
Webb performed well. Not perfectly—he hesitated occasionally, let Blackwood interrupt him twice, failed to counter one of Winters' stronger arguments. But overall, solidly competent.
Better than Jimmy had expected for a first major public appearance.
The debate concluded with closing statements. Webb thanked everyone for their attention, reiterated his commitment to Birmingham's working families, and sat down looking relieved it was over.
Jimmy left the gallery as journalists approached candidates for follow-up questions. He'd review newspaper coverage tomorrow, assess what messages had broken through, adjust strategy for the next public appearance.
He was halfway to the exit when a volunteer found him with a copy of the afternoon's Birmingham Post. The front page featured an article about the election, focusing primarily on Blackwood and Winters but including several paragraphs about Webb.
That was expected. What wasn't expected was the detailed sidebar analyzing Webb's positions on eight different policy issues, including specific proposals that Webb had cut from his prepared remarks during final speech revision.
Jimmy read the sidebar twice, ice settling in his stomach. The article mentioned Webb's original proposal for fifteen percent teacher salary increases—a number Webb had reduced to "competitive increases" in the final version after Jimmy pointed out that specific percentages invited attacks.
It referenced his initial position on housing inspections requiring penalties rather than incentives—language Webb had softened after Dr. Foster's suggestion.
These were working draft details. Information that existed only in preliminary documents shared with Foster and Jimmy.
Someone had access to Webb's internal strategy materials. Someone was feeding detailed information to journalists or opposition campaigns or both.
The security problem from Chandler's investigation had returned. A traitor was operating within the campaign, leaking strategic intelligence to enemies Jimmy hadn't even properly identified yet.
Jimmy folded the newspaper carefully, mind already racing through suspects and implications. Foster seemed unlikely—she had no motive and her professional reputation depended on confidentiality. Webb himself was ruled out by basic logic.
That left volunteers with occasional access to documents, or someone in the Shelby organization who knew about the campaign's hidden connections.
Or worse—someone deliberately planted to infiltrate operations from the beginning.
He needed to investigate immediately, but carefully. Letting the leak know it had been identified would drive it underground, make it harder to find. Better to continue operations normally while tracking information flow, identifying who knew which details when, narrowing the suspect list through elimination.
This was familiar work. Jimmy had hunted Billy Kitchen through similar methods—compartmentalized information, tracking leak patterns, methodical elimination of suspects. But that investigation had nearly destroyed the Shelbys before Jimmy solved it.
And even then, he'd suspected a second traitor remained undiscovered.
Perhaps this was that second traitor, finally active again after months of dormancy.
Jimmy walked back toward Small Heath through Birmingham's evening smoke, already planning his investigation. Tomorrow he'd create compartmentalized information streams—different versions of strategy documents shared with different people, tracking which versions leaked to identify the source.
Classic counterintelligence work applied to political campaign.
The campaign had been proceeding so smoothly. Webb learning his lessons, volunteers organizing effectively, polls showing competitive positioning against Blackwood and Winters.
Jimmy had been confident, perhaps overconfident, in his control of variables.
Now someone was actively undermining that control. Feeding information to opposition. Trying to ensure Webb's failure through intelligence rather than electoral competition.
And Jimmy had no idea who it was or what their actual objectives were.
---
Webb was alone in his classroom when Jimmy arrived near midnight, a single lamp illuminating the desk where he'd been working. Papers covered every surface—speech drafts, policy proposals, correspondence with supporters.
The teacher looked exhausted, ink-stained fingers rubbing his eyes as Jimmy knocked on the door frame.
"Mr. Cartwright. Bit late for strategy sessions."
"Needed to discuss something." Jimmy entered, closing the door behind him. "You're working late."
"Couldn't sleep. Keep thinking about the debate, everything I should have said differently." Webb gestured to the papers. "And trying to finalize these position papers before the next rally. Dr. Foster wants them published, but I'm not satisfied they're ready."
Jimmy studied the documents scattered across the desk—drafts in various stages, some marked with Foster's editorial suggestions, others showing Webb's own revisions. Anyone entering this room would have access to campaign strategy in its rawest form.
"How many people have access to your working drafts?"
"Just Dr. Foster and yourself. Why?"
"The Birmingham Post article this afternoon included details from preliminary versions of your policies. Information you'd revised before the debate." Jimmy pulled out the newspaper, pointing to the sidebar. "These aren't your current positions. They're earlier drafts that we modified."
Webb took the newspaper, reading carefully. His expression shifted from confusion to understanding to anger. "Someone's been reading my papers."
"Someone with access to this classroom or to wherever you're storing draft documents. Have you noticed anything unusual? People where they shouldn't be, documents moved or copied?"
"No. But I'm not exactly paranoid about security. This is a school, not a military installation." Webb set down the newspaper. "You think someone's deliberately leaking information?"
"I think someone knew details they shouldn't have known and made sure those details reached journalists." Jimmy pulled out his notebook. "I need you to start tracking who has access to campaign materials. Lock documents when you're not present. Create specific versions of position papers for different reviewers so we can trace leaks if they continue."
"That's..."
"Counterintelligence. Yes." Jimmy met Webb's eyes directly. "You're running for political office in Birmingham. That means you have enemies—Blackwood's campaign, Winters' supporters, business interests that prefer corruption they can control.
Of course someone's trying to undermine you. The question is whether we identify them before they cause real damage."
Webb was quiet for a long moment, processing this new reality. "I thought politics was about policy and voter outreach. You're describing espionage."
"Politics is warfare with different weapons. Information, perception, strategic positioning. If you're not prepared to defend your campaign intelligence, you'll lose to people who are."
Jimmy softened his tone slightly. "You're learning how this actually works. It's not pleasant, but it's necessary."
"I'm becoming everything I criticized in politicians," Webb said quietly. "Strategic deception, controlled information, treating voters like targets to be managed rather than citizens to be informed. Three months ago, I was teaching children arithmetic. Now I'm learning counterintelligence and information compartmentalization."
"You're learning how power works. Once you're elected, you can use that power better than the people who taught you."
"Can I?" Webb looked at the papers covering his desk. "Or will I just be another corrupt politician who justifies compromise as pragmatism until there's nothing left of whatever principles I started with?"
Jimmy had no good answer to that question. He'd asked himself similar things in quieter moments, usually late at night when rationalization became harder.
The difference was that Jimmy had already accepted what he'd become. Webb was still fighting it.
"You're not corrupt," Jimmy said finally. "You're being strategic. There's a difference."
"Is there? Because from where I'm sitting, the difference looks smaller every day." Webb began organizing papers, clearly wanting the conversation to end. "I'll implement your security protocols. Track access, compartmentalize information. Become more paranoid and less trusting. That's apparently what winning requires."
"It is."
"Then I suppose I'm learning my lessons well." Webb's tone carried bitterness that hadn't been present weeks ago. "Thank you for the education, Mr. Cartwright. I'm becoming quite the accomplished political operator."
Jimmy left the classroom with Webb's words following him into Birmingham's night. The teacher was more perceptive than anticipated, asking questions that came too close to uncomfortable truths.
The manipulation was succeeding—Webb was learning to think strategically, to manage information, to operate within politics' actual rules rather than idealized versions.
But success felt increasingly hollow. Webb was right—he was becoming exactly what he'd criticized. And Jimmy was the one teaching those lessons, corrupting genuine idealism into strategic cynicism.
The work continued. The campaign advanced. The leak investigation would proceed.
But walking back to Mrs. Price's boarding house through empty streets, Jimmy felt the weight of what he was building. Not just a political campaign, but a transformation.
Webb's education wasn't just about winning elections. It was about losing innocence, accepting that good outcomes required bad methods, learning to live with the person you became in pursuit of worthy goals.
Jimmy knew that education well. He'd taught it to himself over years of compromise and rationalization.
Now he was teaching it to someone else, and the teaching felt more like corruption than enlightenment.
Above Morrison's butcher shop, blood would be seeping through his ceiling. Violence lurking beneath every surface. The metaphor remained constant even as everything else changed.
Jimmy had proven intelligence could triumph over violence. But he was discovering that intelligence could be its own form of violence—subtler, more insidious, leaving different kinds of scars.
The traitor hunt would begin tomorrow. Security protocols implemented. Leak patterns analyzed. Suspects identified and eliminated through methodical investigation.
But tonight, walking home through Birmingham's smoke and shadows, Jimmy just felt tired.
The work never ended. The problems multiplied. And somewhere in the machinery of manipulation he'd constructed, someone was working against him, undermining the campaign through intelligence he couldn't yet identify or counter.
Welcome to politics, Jimmy thought. Welcome to the education of Martin Webb. Welcome to discovering that every victory came with costs that accumulated until you couldn't remember what winning was supposed to feel like.
He climbed the stairs to his room in Mrs. Price's boarding house and lay down without turning on the light, staring at the ceiling in the darkness.
Tomorrow he'd hunt the traitor. Tomorrow he'd continue teaching Webb and managing the campaign and maintaining the illusion of control.
But tonight, just for a few hours, he let himself feel the weight of what he'd become.
A teacher of corruption. A corruptor of teachers. A man who used intelligence as a weapon and called it service.
The blood kept seeping, whether anyone acknowledged it or not.