John looks up, his smirk fading. "What's up, Finn?"
Elliot holds out both slips with his hands steady. "Same horse. Same man. Twenty minutes apart."
The shop's noise hushes as Polly slowly and deliberately sets down her pen, a Peaky Blinders queen sensing blood.
She crosses to the counter then takes the slips and studies them while tapping ash into the tray with a flick.
Her face is unreadable, but her eyes burn with intensity. "Arthur," she says with her calm voice.
Arthur storms over with fury in his steps. Polly hands him the slips without a word.
He scans them, his face twisting with realization then grabs the brown-coated man's arm just as he tries to slip out the door. "Oi, Malone, you slimy bastard!"
The punter protests with voice cracking but Arthur's grip is like iron, and Polly's cold gaze silences him instantly.
"Out," Arthur snarls, hauling him into the street, his Peaky Blinders fury a force of nature. The door slams shut with a deafening crash with the sound ringing through the shop. Malone's shouts fade, swallowed by the fog outside.
Polly silently returns to her ledger, but the air shifts with a tide of respect rippling through the shop.
John whistles while clapping Elliot's shoulder, his grin back in full. "Bloody hell Finn, you're a proper Shelby now. Saved us a packet on Monaghan Boy."
Elliot nods, Finn's grin masking the thrill in his chest. His baskets caught a cheat and Polly saw it.
At one o'clock, the rush slows and the shop settles into a quiet haze of dust and cigarette smoke.
Elliot moves to the back table, where the baskets stand. He counts the slips: 14 in Red, 10 in Blue, 4 in Yellow, Monaghan Boy's bets dominating Red's morning pile.
His notebook is packed with names, times and odds that track the tally. One Red slip—another Monaghan Boy bet—has a crosswise fold, meant for Blue.
He'd spotted it during the rush, a test he'd slipped in to prove his system's precision. The error, now corrected, confirms his hold.
Polly pours tea from a chipped pot with steam curling. She hands Elliot a mug and the warmth seep through his fingers.
She watches him with unreadable eyes, a Blinders matriarch sizing up a soldier. "You folded one wrong," she says, nodding to the Red basket.
Elliot blinks and meeting her gaze. "I don't think so."
"It was Monaghan Boy. Worcester. Morning race."
He doesn't flinch. "It was posted after noon. Makes it Blue."
Then a slow silence stretches.
Polly's lips twitch, a smirk so faint it's barely there. "You're right. I folded it wrong. On purpose."
Elliot straightens, pulse quickening. "Why?"
"To see if you'd catch it," she says with a low voice like she's sharing a razor's secret. "Didn't want to hand you Yellow if you couldn't spot a lie."
He looks at the mug with steam curling between them while his grip tightening.
"Good," she says while turning away, her approval a rare thing. "Keep proving me right."
The room feels warmer with the weight of her hard-won trust.
By the end of the day the shop grows quieter with punters trickling out. Monaghan Boy's victory has already become the main topic of conversation in Small Heath's pubs.
John and Arthur lounge by the counter, trading jabs about a drunk who bet against Tommy's horse.
"Bloody fool thought Dusty Lad had a chance," John says while tossing a coin and catching it. "Should've bet on me charming his missus!"
Arthur laughs, giving John a playful cuff on the head. "You'd charm a pig first, you daft sod." Their banter fills the shop, bringing a rough warmth to the otherwise quiet space.
Polly stands by the ledger, tapping sums with a steady rhythm.
Elliot's mind races while tracing patterns : Malone wasn't solo; Kimber's men are testing us and sniffing the fix.
Polly appears silently behind him, and drops a shilling into his palm. "For your trouble," she gruffly says with no smile. "Don't waste it."
Elliot looks up and feels the coin cool against his skin. "Thank you, Aunt Pol."
She pauses, her eyes narrowing. "Tomorrow, Yellow tally by noon. On your own." He nods with his heart racing.
When the last punter shuffles out, the shop falls quiet.
Arthur's hand heavily claps Elliot's shoulder. "Not bad, Finn," he says with a low voice, a brother's pride and his earlier threat forgotten.
"Keep that head on, or I'll knock it off meself." His grin is all teeth but his eyes soften, a flicker of family.
Polly stands by the door with coat buttoned and cigarette ash glowing faintly in the dusk.
She holds out the Yellow basket, its wicker worn but sturdy. "It's yours now," she says with eyes locking on his, her Peaky Blinders command absolute. "Make it count."
Elliot takes it with his fingers brushing hers. "I'll count them proper," he says, voice steady.
"You do that," she says and pauses, then her gaze becomes sharper. "And watch for Kimber's boys. They'll come harder after Monaghan Boy's win."
He simply nods, as he already knows that.
His place in the Shelby world feels carved, earned one folded slip at a time.
He steps into the street and he flips a coin, his new ritual, catching it mid-air.
Heads.
He slides it into his pocket with the Yellow basket tucked under his arm.
The war was coming.
And he was ready for it.
No man ever said.