Chapter 112
Tommy didn't have long to wait. He was in the shop the next morning when Rosie came through with the envelope, handed it to him and glanced at Polly, who didn't even attempt to hide that she was watching.
"It was delivered to The Garrison," the redhead muttered, "Harry brought it over."
They shared a look. It had been luck, that Harry had brought it. It might have been Grace Rosie had opened the door to.
But they weren't going to say anything about that here. He trusted the men who worked in the shop - most of them were kin of some sort, or nearly as good as - but trusting them to work in the shop, to handle cash and slips and not try anything was a different beast to trusting them with the knowledge of Grace.
He put it in his pocket, raised an eyebrow at Pol and made a show, for the sake of the workers, of asking Rosie how the ledgers were looking.
He had a feeling the contents were something that wasn't anything to do with the betting shop and, after dismissing Rosie to go back to the kitchen table and continue her own work, he put his cap on his head and left, making his way to The Garrison. It had been delivered there:
"By courier, Mr Shelby," Harry said when asked, "I thought I'd best bring it over."
"Well don't, in future any mail that comes here for me can go in the office until I'm next in," he replied, his voice leaving no room for debate.
He disappeared into the snug, lit a cigarette and tapped on the small window sill. Grace brought him a glass and a bottle and he forced himself to give her a nod and an imitation of a smile, which she returned with a warm and wide one of her own, looking loath to leave him when another customer approached the bar.
He poured a drink, checked that she was being kept busy, then turned and sat down at the table,
'Mr Thomas Shelby, The Garrison Tavern, Small Heath, Birmingham.'
The hand was the clerk in the post office's, he recognised it. It gave him no clue.
Nor did the contents.
Sender unknown.
Thomas Shelby.
60 Bullock Street.
He knew Bullock Street. Didn't know anyone who lived on it particularly. He folded it over as the door opened, hiding the contents from prying eyes.
It was only Pol. She hadn't taken her time, must have slipped out right behind him. Obviously, if there was no time for subtlety in his aunt's mind, this was a pressing matter. But though she and Rosie had been a little more civil since Monday, it seemed more a ceasefire than a proper peace offering and he wasn't in the mood for giving her an easy ride.
He waited in silence, inhaling and exhaling, as she closed the windows over, clearly not wanting to risk being overheard, then sat down on the seat next to him and clasped her hands on the table, regarding him in a way that suggested she had something she wanted to say, but that she knew he was on Rosie's side of things. She wasn't going to play meek and mild - it wasn't her style - but she was waiting on him to lead.
"Did you have something to do with this?" he asked, passing her the telegram.
She didn't unfold it before answering, "I asked an acquaintance for an address."
She knew the contents then.
"She said she'd only give it to me anonymously - she's afraid of the consequences."
Tommy widened his eyes and asked, impatient, "Whose address is it?"
He didn't have time for this nonsense. It was Friday afternoon, the school would be finishing soon and he wanted back to get Rosie and then go pick up the kids. His mind was already in Charlie's yard, sitting with her, watching them playing, imagining the day it would be some little mix of him and her they were watching at play, imagining what a determined, stubborn little terror that kid would be.
Something in her tone pulled him back into the room as she reached forward, picked up the telegram and said, "Tommy, I'd like to suggest a strategy."
He flicked his eyes to the paper, then back to her.
She unfolded it with quick fingers, glanced at the contents, then pushed it at him, leaning in, lowering her voice even further, "Tommy - this is the address of Stanley Chapman."
He raised an eyebrow.
Stanley Chapman was - was a big deal. In the communist world. An even bigger deal than Freddie.
Stanley Chapman lived in hiding. Turned up at rallies and was taken away again before the police could catch him.
"So?" he asked.
He knew who Stanley Chapman was, but what difference did that make to them?
"Go to Campbell, offer him this, offer him Stanley in exchange for Freddie."
Tommy blinked slowly, inhaled and exhaled, "They won't make that deal. Chapman might be barking the orders but Freddie's out there carrying them out, getting folk worked up. They want him stopped. Freddie's more valuable to them, in practical terms."
"They'll make that deal," Polly said, raising her eyebrows.
He scoffed.
"They'll make that deal," Polly repeated, "Because you can give them proof Chapman has snow on his boots, isn't just talk."
"Can I?" he asked, sarcastically.
"Freddie took Ada to London, Tommy. Made her make that journey in her current state. It wasn't a pleasure cruise."
He raised an eyebrow. He had never thought it was. He had presumed Freddie had gone to London for something to do with his politics. Had presumed there was a reason.
"Freddie picked up money, that he delivered to Chapman. About two hundred pounds, Tommy. Straight from the Russian government."
Tommy clicked his tongue "And how would you know that?"
She glared at him, then sighed and sat back in her chair, not answering him. They both knew how she knew. There was only one way she could know.
"Why would our Ada be snitching on her beloved husband to you, Pol?" he asked.
"Alright, fine!" Polly snapped, "The truth is, Ada looked at what was in the envelope when she could. And she was insulted, I think, because Freddie fed her a pack of lies about meeting a Frenchman who she said she knew fine well was a Russian."
For all he could understand Ada being insulted, he was glad Freddie had lied to her. It showed he was trying to protect her, giving her the wrong information, hoping she'd believe it so that if she was ever questioned she'd be able to answer honestly about what she'd been told. It showed some sort of concern, at least.
"But, when Rosie said her piece about Freddie and his loyalty, I think maybe that set her mind up to doing something with the information."
Tommy raised an eyebrow.
"It was Ada's idea - to see if we could get her and Freddie out of the city. Ada's in love with him, not his politics."
Tommy flicked his ash then took his time inhaling.
"So - will you do it?" Polly demanded, frowning, "For Ada?"
He nodded slowly, "I'll do something with it - and you'll do something for me."
It was Pol's turn to raise an eyebrow.
"You'll make peace with Rosie," he told her.
She gave an annoyed scoff, but didn't argue.
He picked up the paper, tucked it into his breast pocket and stood up, "Now, Polly. Before the school run."
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
He didn't know what was said in the kitchen between the two women, but he fancied, when he entered it and nodded for her to put her coat on and follow him out the door, that Rosie did so with more of an ease about her than he had seen her with of late.
The kids were delighted at the idea of another visit to Charlie's.
"Curly's off driving the boat with what I was putting on it yesterday," he greeted them, sitting down on a crate and pulling Lily onto one knee and Katie onto the other, bouncing them a little, getting their giggles, "He'll be sad to miss you my little chickens."
"Can we go on Porridge, Uncle Charlie?" Lily asked.
Charlie looked to Tommy, who cleared his throat, shook his head and said, "Not today, Lily."
"Why?" she twisted on Charlie's knee to look at him, her lower lip jutting out.
He tried not to laugh - he had a feeling she knew damn well why, and that that was specifically why she'd asked Charlie rather than him - she knew fine well what he'd say.
He managed to maintain his stern countenance to chide, "What have we talked about Lily? He's a young horse, isn't he?"
She sighed and rolled her eyes, "But he's been a young horse for ages Tommy! When is he going to grow up?"
She sounded so world weary it was all he could manage not to burst out laughing on the spot. Seven years old and you'd have thought she'd waited decades for the horse to grow.
He privately thought he deserved a medal for spitting out, "You can't all four of you have a go, he'll be worn out, it's not fair on him," without crying tears of mirth.
Lily looked set to argue with him, so he raised an eyebrow, the idea of her seeming seriously ready for answering him back sobering him enough to offer her, with backbone, "And it's certainly not fair for him to be pushed through four of you riding him today and then you coming back tomorrow for another go. If you want to give up your shot, I'll let Katie, Jack and Alfie have a go today and you won't get the ride again until next week, how's that suit you?"
She huffed and glared at the idea.
"Nah, didn't think so," Tommy smirked, "You leave that horse in peace."
She turned her face back to Uncle Charlie, who laughed heartily at whatever look she was giving him.
"Oh he's a piece of work, my little chicken, I quite agree," Charlie said with a nod and a wink, "But he means well. It's just hidden under all that growling. I'd suggest maybe you lot go play though, before he gets himself any more worked up."
Tommy snorted - he wasn't in the slightest bit worked up and they all knew it fine well - but Lily and Katie slid off Charlie's knees, darting glances his way and scuttled off to see what Jack and Alfie were buying themselves with, enough sense not to risk it.
He raised an eyebrow at Charlie, who grinned, and scratched the back of his neck, "Ah Tom, you know as well as I do - a good reputation saves you having to act half the time."
"That's why you go around with a face like thunder, is it?" Rosie laughed, nudging him in the ribs.
He tutted, grabbed a crate and turned it up, smacking his hand down on it and saying, "You sit down and give me peace from your needling, woman."
"You're needing as much needling as possible, Thomas Shelby," she told him, smirking as she sat, "Does you good."
"Does it, aye?"
"Aye."
"I'll second that," Charlie sniggered.
Tommy made a show of rolling his eyes and going to say hello to Porridge himself, before returning with the crate he had had Lily climb up on to get herself onto the horse in their recent lessons and setting it down by hers.
Lily came running to him after a while, their mood she had been giving him before Charlie had sent her off seemingly gone, her usual sunshine smile replacing the petted lip. She shoved herself between his legs and hugged her arms around his neck with a sing song rendition of his name.
"What're you after my little love?" he asked, putting his arms to her waist.
"I know you said the four of us can't ride Porridge," she said, "But you said Katie could come to the yard with us on a Saturday."
"You did say that, Thomas," Rosie nodded, unhelpful and amused.
He had said it, but he'd been only too glad when Lily had dropped the idea, preferring to claim the days for her own time with him - he hadn't pushed to bring the idea to the table again.
Still, he had to agree, "I suppose I did."
"Can she come tomorrow?" Lily pushed, breathless with excitement.
"I'll think about it," he replied, trying not to groan at the idea, "You go back and play your game. What are you playing?"
"Peaky Blinders," Lily replied with a shrug.
"What does that involve?" he asked, slightly wary.
"Stamping about noisily and shouting by order of the Peaky Blinders, with your scariest face," she explained, "Katie's the best at it. I don't think I'm very scary."
"I'm sure you're plenty scary - but you just make sure you're being careful," he said, kissing her forehead and turning her round, swatting gently at her to get her moving, "Off you go then."
"You did say she could bring Katie to her lessons," Rosie said once she was out of earshot.
"Aye, I'll bring the two of them tomorrow - just figured it wasn't fair for them to get to rub it in the twins' faces for the rest of today as well as the rubbing Katie'll do tomorrow."
Rosie and Charlie exchanged eye rolls and shook their heads, amused by him.
"I'll prep for chaos tomorrow then," Charlie grunted, lighting a fresh cigarette.
"I'd say so, Charlie, I'd certainly say so."
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
"You alright to get them the last leg home yourself?" Tommy asked Rosie when they weren't too far from Watery Lane.
"O' course," she nodded, frowning a little in question.
"Moss gets off about now. I'm just going to check on the situation with Clayton."
Rosie nodded, "I'm doing chicken and leek pie for tonight."
"Finn'll be pleased."
"I'll maybe do a spare and take it across the road, for her and Paul."
"You do as you see fit," Tommy nodded, noting that he'd best up the house keeping money he gave her to allow for a few meals a week to go across the road, "I'll be back soon."
He turned and walked in the opposite direction, towards the station, listening to Rosie fend off questions from the kids about where he was going.
He tried to picture Ada in the same position - but he couldn't. His mind was against the idea and so it refused to show him the picture of his sister in the mothering role he so happily let Rosie pick up. The role it made him content, happy, to see her in.
He knew he was being a hypocrite. Knew there really wasn't that much in age between them. But it suited Rosie more than it did Ada. Or at least, he was determined to see it that way.
He remembered the bloody outing that Finn and Rosie had gone on that day last year, the one that had caused him to bring her to Watery Lane.
They'd thought it had been Ada. Charlie had thought it was Ada he'd seen. And then he had gone to do the pick up and had seen Ada leaving the school. And he'd genuinely thought she'd gone as far as going back to the school, sneaking inside the building and leaving it again just so it looked right for whoever was picking Finn up that day to see her.
Crafty little madam, Polly had called her. Had suggested it could serve them well.
He'd had his worries about Ada not towing his lines, not behaving herself. But now, not that he'd admit it to her or anything, he was glad of his sister's stubborn rebellious streak, her desire to please herself. If she hadn't had that she'd never have looked in the envelope. Never have been able to suggest anything to Pol.
He lit a cigarette and lingered in an alleyway, hanging to the shadows to cloak him, the October dusk grey like his suit, lighting little, hiding much, waiting for Moss to walk by - almost making the man jump out of his skin when he cleared his throat to get his attention.
"What do you want?" Moss asked, huffing.
Tommy was tempted to roll his eyes. Moss was in that kind of mood, then.
Every so often, Moss would get a bee in his bonnet about his double operator role. Would try and convince himself he was above it, was more moral than that. It was always a slightly dangerous time. When the true attacks of conscience hit, as infrequent as they did, there was no price he could buy Moss for. Not until it waned. Usually, they were over as quickly as they started. But they were pointed little intervals that reminded him that paid soldiers were only ever paid soldiers, and kin was kin.
"The Clayton case, Moss, any update?"
"No one saw anything, it seems," Moss said grudgingly.
"Well, well, surprise, surprise," Tommy said tonelessly, "Who'd have seen that coming?"
It was a fine line that needed to be tread, during these spells of Moss' moods. Reminders that Tommy would do as he pleased, and it could either be to Moss' financial benefit or not - but that he wouldn't pin the blinders down regardless for anything. But not so brutal a reminder as to send him running to the arms of the law.
It was like courting a lapsed church goer. She wanted your hand up her skirt, then every so often it would get slapped away until the desire overtook the guilt again, and you just had to wait it out, keep teasing enough that she didn't forget the times you'd had together.
"Anything else, Tom?" Moss spat.
"Aye, get this to Inspector Campbell, will you?" Tommy said, taking the envelope he'd swapped the telegram for before they'd left for the school run out of his pocket, handing it to Moss, giving him a smirk and saying, "Promise it'll make you his star pupil."
He chucked his cigarette down, pulled his hat low and sauntered out of the alleyway.
The contents of the envelope read:
'I have an address. Sunday midnight. The garage on Garrison Lane.'
He figured Campbell would show.
It worked out well timing wise, gave him an opportunity to scope out just how much Moss might have, in his attack of conscience, told the inspector. To see if any mentions of his cleaner had been made.