The blood seeping through the ceiling was becoming a problem.
James Cartwright tilted his head back, watching the dark stain spread across the plaster like a slow-blooming flower. Below, in Morrison's Butcher Shop, someone was having a difficult afternoon with a side of pork.
The rhythmic thud of cleaver on block had been steady for the past twenty minutes, punctuated by Morrison's Welsh cursing and the occasional wet sound that made Jimmy grateful he'd skipped lunch.
He adjusted his wire-frame spectacles and returned his attention to the document before him—a birth certificate for one Giuseppe Castellano, aged forty-two, born in Naples in 1880.
Except Giuseppe Castellano had actually been born in Birmingham in 1895, and his real name was Joseph Castle. The certificate would say whatever Jimmy needed it to say by the time he was finished with it.
His fountain pen moved across the paper with practiced precision, the nib scratching softly in the afternoon quiet of his office.
Outside, Garrison Lane hummed with the ordinary sounds of Small Heath—tram wheels screeching on rails, factory whistles marking shift changes, children shouting in the street below.
Inside, Jimmy's world consisted of ink and paper, secrets and solutions, all conducted in this cramped room above the smell of blood and sawdust.
The office was exactly as he preferred it: controlled, organized, impenetrable. Two tall windows overlooked Garrison Lane, their curtains perpetually half-drawn to let in light while keeping out prying eyes.
His oak desk faced the door—he'd learned long ago never to sit with his back to an entrance—its surface a precisely maintained chaos of fountain pens, blotting paper, and the tools of his trade.
Four locked filing cabinets lined one wall, alphabetically organized and containing the sort of information that could destroy lives or save them, depending on who paid him and what they needed.
A coal stove squatted in the corner, smoking sullenly. The January cold seeped through the walls despite his best efforts, and Jimmy kept his overcoat draped over his shoulders as he worked.
He'd learned to tolerate discomfort. Three years in France processing death notifications had taught him that paperwork could be done in any conditions, at any temperature, with any smell in the air.
Blood from below was nothing compared to the smell of the tent where he'd matched serial numbers to bodies.
He dipped his pen in the inkwell—black ink for this work, never blue—and continued the careful forgery.
The key to a convincing document wasn't just replicating the handwriting or getting the official seals right, though both were crucial. It was understanding the system.
Who filed what forms, when they filed them, what mistakes were normal and what would raise suspicions.
Jimmy had spent eight years as a solicitor's clerk before the war, learning every tedious detail of England's bureaucratic machinery. He knew which clerks were meticulous and which were lazy, which offices used what paper stock in what year, how official signatures changed when men were tired or rushed or simply didn't care anymore.
The Castellano family needed these papers by tomorrow morning. They were good people, or as good as anyone could be in Birmingham in 1922.
Giuseppe worked at the Lucas factory, his wife took in washing, they had three children and a grandmother who'd made the crossing from Naples thirty years ago.
But without proper documentation, the government's new anti-immigrant provisions would see them deported back to Italy within the month.
Jimmy charged them five pounds—half his usual rate—because Mrs. Castellano reminded him of his own mother, dead these eight years, and because he still clung to the absurd notion that he had principles.
Never accept cases involving harm to children. Never help cover up sexual violence. Never kill.
Everything else was negotiable.
He finished the birth certificate and set it aside to dry, then reached for the marriage license. This one required more care—the seal needed to be perfect, the paper properly aged.
He lit a Player's Navy Cut and squinted through the smoke at the document, checking the spacing, the ink color, the—
The knock on the door was polite but firm. Three raps, evenly spaced.
Jimmy glanced at the clock on his desk. Half past three. He wasn't expecting anyone.
The Castellanos weren't due until tomorrow, and his other current clients—a Jewish bookkeeper who needed tax documents adjusted, a shopkeeper's wife seeking proof of her husband's bigamy—had all been handled earlier in the week.
"Come in," he called, his hand automatically moving to cover the documents on his desk with a piece of blank paper.
The door opened, and Mrs. Elowen Price bustled in carrying a tea tray, her round face flushed from climbing the stairs.
His landlady was a sturdy Welsh woman of fifty-six who'd buried a husband and a son and possessed the sort of no-nonsense practicality that came from surviving coal mines and war.
She knew exactly what Jimmy did in this office—it was impossible to hide anything from a woman who cleaned your rooms and mended your clothes—but she'd never asked uncomfortable questions, and he'd never volunteered uncomfortable answers.
"You've not eaten since breakfast," she announced, setting the tray on the corner of his desk with the careful precision of someone who understood not to disturb his workspace. "Don't tell me you've been up here all day breathing smoke and starving yourself."
"I had tea at lunch," Jimmy protested mildly, though they both knew he was lying.
"Tea's not food, James." She poured from the pot—proper china, never mugs, that was one of his immovable requirements—and added milk without asking. She knew how he took it. "I've brought you some bara brith. Fresh this morning."
The Welsh tea bread was still warm, and despite himself, Jimmy's stomach rumbled. He'd been too focused on the Castellano papers to notice his hunger, but now the smell of the spiced bread cut through the cigarette smoke and butcher shop blood, reminding him that he was, in fact, human and required sustenance.
"You're a saint, Mrs. Price," he said, reaching for the plate.
"I'm a practical woman who doesn't want her best lodger collapsing from neglect." She settled into one of the client chairs—the decent one, not the wobbly one—and fixed him with a look that reminded him uncomfortably of his mother.
"Though I'm not sure 'best' is the right word, given the sort of people I've seen climbing these stairs lately."
Jimmy paused mid-bite. "Anyone in particular?"
"That Italian family yesterday—they're fine people, no trouble there. But that man Tuesday evening, the one with the scar and the way of looking at things like he was pricing them for theft…"
She shook her head. "You're playing a dangerous game, cariad, working for everyone and no one. Birmingham's not neutral ground anymore, if it ever was."
"I don't work for anyone, Mrs. Price. I work for everyone who can pay my fee and pass my standards." He sipped his tea, grateful for the warmth. "That's the entire point. I'm Switzerland."
"Switzerland's surrounded by countries that would very much like to invade it," she pointed out with the maddening logic she always employed when she was right and knew it. "And I've been hearing things."
Jimmy set down his teacup with deliberate care. Mrs. Price's "hearing things" had saved his life twice and his liberty four times.
She had a network of washerwomen, maids, and cleaning women who moved through Birmingham's houses like ghosts, invisible to their employers but seeing everything. Information flowed through that network faster than through any newspaper.
"What sort of things?"
"The Shelbys." She said the name quietly, as one might name a natural disaster.
"They've been asking about you. Not threatening, mind, but…asking. Tommy Shelby himself came into Morrison's yesterday, bought nothing, just stood there looking at your door like he was measuring it for a coffin."
Jimmy felt something cold settle in his stomach that had nothing to do with the January chill.
Thomas Shelby was not a man who made social calls or showed curiosity without purpose. If Tommy Shelby was interested in him, it meant one of two things: he wanted to use Jimmy's services, or he wanted to eliminate a potential problem.
"Did Morrison mention this to me? No, of course he didn't." Jimmy stubbed out his cigarette with more force than necessary. "Anything else?"
"Just that you should be careful. The Italians are fighting with the Jews, the Jews are fighting with everyone, and the Shelbys—"
She lowered her voice even though they were alone. "The Shelbys are expanding. They don't like loose ends or neutral parties. Eventually, they'll make you choose."
"I won't choose." Jimmy heard the stubbornness in his own voice and hated it. He sounded like a child insisting the rules should be fair.
"That's the point of what I do, Mrs. Price. I solve problems that violence can't solve. I'm useful to everyone precisely because I don't take sides."
She stood, smoothing her apron. "Eventually, love, they won't give you a choice. You can't stand in the middle when armies are marching through."
She paused at the door. "I've got shepherd's pie for dinner. Six o'clock. Don't make me come up here and drag you down."
After she left, Jimmy sat in the gathering afternoon shadows and tried to focus on the Castellano papers, but the concentration wouldn't come.
His mind kept returning to Mrs. Price's words, to the image of Tommy Shelby standing in the butcher shop below, measuring his door.
He'd built his practice carefully over the past three years, establishing himself as the man you called when the problem required thinking instead of shooting.
Need documents forged? Jimmy Cartwright. Need leverage on someone? Jimmy Cartwright. Need an alibi that will hold up under police scrutiny? Jimmy Cartwright.
He'd worked for Jewish bookmakers and Irish republicans, Italian smugglers and Chinese merchants, even the occasional desperate businessman from the respectable parts of Birmingham who'd gotten himself into trouble he couldn't shoot his way out of.
But he'd never worked for the Peaky Blinders.
It wasn't that he disapproved of them—moral superiority was a luxury he couldn't afford, not in his profession. It was purely practical.
The Shelbys weren't just another gang; they were becoming the gang, absorbing or destroying competitors, expanding from illegal betting into legitimate business.
Working for them would mean choosing sides in Birmingham's underworld war, and neutrality was his armor, his protection. As long as he worked for everyone, no one could afford to kill him.
The clock ticked toward four. Outside, the winter sun was already setting, turning the smoke-filled air golden and orange.
Jimmy lit another cigarette and returned to the Castellano papers, forcing his mind to focus on the immediate problem. Birth certificate, marriage license, proof of residency.
Simple problems with simple solutions. Everything else could wait.
He was applying the forged seal to the marriage license when he heard footsteps on the stairs. Not Mrs. Price's heavy, practical tread, but something different.
Lighter, but somehow more ominous. The kind of footsteps that belonged to someone who knew how to move quietly but chose not to, who wanted you to hear them coming.
Jimmy's hand moved automatically to the desk drawer where he kept a revolver he'd never fired and probably never would.
He didn't believe in violence as a solution—violence was what you did when you'd run out of intelligent options. But he wasn't naive enough to face Birmingham unarmed.
Three knocks. The same rhythm as Mrs. Price's, but harder. Deliberate.
"Come in," Jimmy said, keeping his voice level.
The door opened.
Thomas Shelby stepped into Jimmy's office like he owned it, which, given the Peaky Blinders' territorial expansion, he might well do soon enough.
He was younger than Jimmy had expected—thirty-two to Jimmy's thirty-four—and dressed in a well-cut suit that probably cost more than Jimmy earned in a month.
Dark hair, blue eyes that saw everything and revealed nothing, and the sort of stillness that came from absolute confidence in one's ability to commit violence if necessary.
Behind him came Arthur Shelby, the older brother who was famous—or infamous—for his volatility.
Arthur was taller, broader, with the look of a man who'd seen too much during the war and brought too much of it home. His eyes scanned the office with the automatic threat assessment of someone who'd survived four years in France by assuming everything was trying to kill him.
Jimmy stood, keeping the desk between himself and his visitors, his hand still resting near the drawer. "Gentlemen. I don't believe we've been formally introduced."
"No need for introductions," Tommy said, his Birmingham accent softer than his brother's, modulated by something that might have been education or might just have been practice.
"You know who we are, Mr. Cartwright. And we know who you are. The man who fixes things."
"I solve problems," Jimmy corrected, years of legal training making him precise even in the face of potential danger. "For clients who can afford my services and whose problems fall within my ethical parameters."
Arthur snorted. "Ethical. That's good, that is. A forger with ethics."
"Everyone has ethics, Mr. Shelby." Jimmy met Arthur's stare without flinching. "Mine simply differ from most people's, and I'm honest about that. Which is more than most men can say."
He turned to Tommy. "I assume you're here because you have a problem. I also assume Mrs. Price's shepherd's pie is going to go cold while we discuss it, so perhaps we should be efficient."
Something that might have been amusement flickered in Tommy's eyes. "Sit down, Mr. Cartwright. This might take a while."
Jimmy gestured to the chairs—Arthur took the decent one, Tommy the wobbly one without apparent concern—and sat back behind his desk, every sense on alert.
The coal stove crackled. Below, Morrison's cleaver hit the block with its steady rhythm. Outside, a tram screeched past, and children shouted in some incomprehensible game.
Tommy pulled out a silver cigarette case, offered it to Jimmy, who declined, then lit one for himself. He took his time about it, and Jimmy recognized the tactic—let the silence build, let the other person's nervousness fill it.
It was a good technique. Unfortunately for Tommy, Jimmy had learned it first, in solicitors' offices and courtrooms where silence was a weapon and patience was victory.
Finally, Tommy spoke. "My brother Arthur has a problem."
"Several, I'd imagine," Jimmy said dryly. "But I assume you mean a specific one."
Arthur leaned forward, his face darkening, but Tommy held up a hand.
"Arthur's going to be arrested," he continued calmly, as if discussing the weather. "Murder. They have evidence that will hang him. And here's the thing, Mr. Cartwright—for once, he didn't actually do it."
That surprised Jimmy enough to show on his face. Arthur Shelby was famous for violence. The idea that he was innocent of a murder charge seemed statistically unlikely.
"You don't believe me," Tommy observed. "That's fine. I wouldn't either. But it's true. Arthur was with me when this particular gentleman died, and we have witnesses. Legitimate ones, even. Doesn't matter. The evidence says otherwise."
"What sort of evidence?" Jimmy asked, his mind already working through possibilities.
"The murder weapon with Arthur's fingerprints. A witness who'll testify he saw Arthur near the scene. Documents linking Arthur to the victim—threats, motive, the whole package."
Tommy's voice remained level, but Jimmy caught the edge beneath it. "Someone's gone to a lot of trouble to frame him properly."
"The police have this evidence?"
"Not yet. It's being held by Inspector Davies. He's planning to execute the arrest warrant Friday morning. That gives us—" Tommy checked his watch. "—seventy-two hours."
Jimmy sat back, his fingers steepled beneath his chin.
Inspector Howell Davies was known to be corrupt, like most Birmingham police, but he was also known to be careful. He didn't make mistakes, and he didn't fabricate evidence unless he was being paid very well by someone with serious resources.
"Inspector Davies isn't a man who frames people on a whim," Jimmy said carefully. "Someone wants your brother hanged, Mr. Shelby, and they're paying for it. The question is who."
"That's my problem," Tommy said. "Your problem is how to make that evidence disappear before Friday."
The office seemed to grow smaller. Jimmy could feel the weight of the proposal settling over him like a shroud.
This wasn't forging immigration papers for an Italian family or arranging a blackmail for a businessman's divorce. This was directly interfering with a murder investigation, tampering with evidence in a capital crime case, and—most dangerously—working for the Peaky Blinders.
"I don't work for gangs," Jimmy said quietly. "I work for individuals with problems. There's a difference."
"Is there?" Tommy tilted his head. "You've worked for Kimber's bookmakers. For the Jews in the Digbeth. For half the Chinese merchants who smuggle opium through the docks. Don't tell me you're neutral, Mr. Cartwright. You're just selective about who you admit you work for."
"That's exactly right," Jimmy agreed. "I'm selective. And I've been careful not to work exclusively for anyone, which keeps me alive and useful. If I save your brother, I become known as the Peaky Blinders' man. Every other gang in Birmingham will see me as an enemy."
"True." Tommy stubbed out his cigarette in the crystal ashtray, the one Jimmy had stolen from the Grand Hotel years ago. "But here's what I'm offering in exchange: protection. Work for us, and no one else will touch you. You'll have the Shelbys behind you."
"Or a target on my back."
"You already have a target on your back, Mr. Cartwright. You just don't know it yet."
Tommy leaned forward, and for the first time, Jimmy saw something other than calculation in those blue eyes. Something that might have been genuine concern or might have been very good acting.
"You think neutrality protects you. It doesn't. It just means you're not important enough to bother killing yet. The moment you become a problem or a prize worth taking, your neutrality becomes irrelevant."
Jimmy wanted to argue, but the words stuck in his throat. Because Tommy was right, and Jimmy had known it for months.
The only reason he'd survived this long was that he'd been useful but not crucial, helpful but not indispensable. The moment that changed, someone would make him choose—or eliminate him for refusing.
"Seventy-two hours isn't enough time," Jimmy said, which wasn't agreement but wasn't refusal either. "Inspector Davies keeps evidence in a locked safe in his office. Getting to it would require—"
"I don't need to know the details," Tommy interrupted. "That's why we're hiring you. You figure out how. We provide resources, money, whatever you need. You deliver results."
"And if I can't?"
Tommy stood, Arthur following a beat later like a dangerous shadow.
"Then Arthur hangs, and you remain Switzerland. Neutral, safe, and utterly irrelevant." He straightened his jacket. "But if you succeed, Mr. Cartwright, then we can discuss a more permanent arrangement. One that comes with benefits you might find interesting."
"I don't need benefits. I need to maintain my independence."
"Everyone needs something," Tommy said, and there was a certainty in his voice that made Jimmy's skin prickle. "Maybe it's money. Maybe it's protection. Maybe—"
He paused, and Jimmy saw the calculation behind his eyes. "—maybe it's information."
The coal stove crackled. Outside, the factory whistles blew for the shift change. Jimmy's cigarette had burned down to ash in the tray.
"What kind of information?" Jimmy asked, though he already knew, already felt the hook sinking in.
"We have files," Tommy said softly. "On everyone in Birmingham. Every gangster, every businessman, every politician. Every unsolved crime, every suspicious death, every secret worth knowing."
He moved to the door, Arthur following. "Including information about Mary Cartwright. Your sister. Age nineteen. Died in 1917 at the BSA factory. Officially ruled an accident."
Jimmy's hands clenched on the desk. He felt his careful control slipping, felt five years of grief and rage trying to break through the armor he'd built around it.
Mary. His baby sister, fifteen years younger, bright and clever and alive until she wasn't. Until the BSA factory had killed her—or someone at the factory had, because Jimmy had never believed the official report, never believed she'd been careless enough to fall into the machinery.
"I've spent five years investigating her death," Jimmy said, his voice rough. "I've talked to everyone who worked with her. I've read every report, bribed every clerk who had access to files. There's nothing to find."
"Because you don't have access to the files I have access to." Tommy opened the door.
"Save Arthur, Mr. Cartwright. Then we'll talk about Mary. About who really killed her. About why. About everything you've wanted to know for five years and couldn't find."
They left, their footsteps echoing down the stairs. Jimmy sat in the gathering darkness, not moving, not thinking, just feeling the weight of the choice settling over him like wet concrete.
He could refuse. Walk away. Maintain his neutrality and his principles and his careful independence. Let Arthur Shelby hang for a murder he might or might not have committed, and keep his own hands clean.
Or he could accept. Save Arthur. Become a Peaky Blinder. Paint a target on his back that every other gang in Birmingham would aim for.
And find out the truth about Mary.
Outside, the sun set completely, leaving only the orange glow of gas lamps and the smoke-filtered darkness of Small Heath. Below, Morrison closed up his shop, and the smell of blood faded slowly from the air.
Jimmy reached for his fountain pen and a fresh piece of paper. Not to forge anything, not yet, but simply to write, to organize his thoughts the way he'd been taught in solicitors' offices years ago.
Make a list. Assess the variables. Consider the angles.
Problem: Arthur Shelby, framed for murder, evidence held by Inspector Davies, 72 hours until arrest.
Solution: Unknown. Requires reconnaissance, leverage on Davies, method to access or destroy evidence.
Complications: Working for Shelbys compromises neutrality. Potential target from other gangs. High risk of failure. Even higher risk of success.
Incentive: Mary. Truth about her death. Five years of searching, and Tommy Shelby claims to have answers.
He stared at the paper for a long time, watching the ink dry, watching his careful handwriting turn his life into a problem to be solved.
That was what he did, wasn't it? Solved problems. Made the impossible possible. Fixed what violence couldn't fix.
The clock struck six. Mrs. Price would be expecting him for dinner, and her shepherd's pie was probably already on the table, growing cold.
Jimmy stood, pulled on his overcoat, adjusted his spectacles, and locked the office door behind him.
As he descended the stairs, passing the darkened butcher shop with its lingering smell of blood and sawdust, he made his decision.
He would save Arthur Shelby.
And then he would find out who killed his sister.
Everything else—neutrality, independence, safety—was negotiable.
He stepped out onto Garrison Lane, into the smoke and darkness of Small Heath, and turned toward Mrs. Price's boarding house.
Behind him, in the shadows across the street, he thought he saw a figure watching. Shelby man, probably, making sure he didn't run.
Or maybe someone else, one of the other gangs, already wondering what Jimmy Cartwright and Tommy Shelby had discussed for so long in that office above the butcher shop.
The war was coming to him whether he wanted it or not.
Jimmy pulled his collar up against the January cold and walked on through the smoke, already planning.
He had seventy-two hours to perform a miracle.
And then everything would change.