The benches were already full when Harrow entered.
He paused only long enough to remove his gloves before taking his seat. The air felt close, damp with breath and wool and too many bodies pressed into too little space. Reporters had taken the aisle seats. A few men stood along the back wall where there was no room left to sit.
Whitcombe placed the docket before him. The clerk's fingers brushed the edge of the paper twice before letting go.
"Proceed," Harrow said.
The first defendant was a butcher's assistant accused of striking a customer during an argument over payment. The man stepped into the dock with shoulders hunched and eyes fixed on the floor.
"You are charged with assault," Harrow began.
"I did it," the man said.
The clerk had not yet finished reading the complaint.
Harrow regarded him steadily. "You understand the charge?"
"Yes."
"And you admit to striking Mr. Hale."
"Yes."
The prosecutor cleared his throat, glanced at his notes, then began outlining witness statements that were now unnecessary. The butcher's assistant did not look up once.
When the sentence was delivered, he nodded, almost gratefully, and stepped down without protest.
The next case involved a bookseller accused of falsifying tax records.
Before Harrow could ask for a plea, the man said, "I altered the ledgers."
"You understand the charge?"
"Yes."
"And the period in question?"
"Two years."
The prosecutor blinked. "The charge concerns six months."
The bookseller swallowed. "It was longer."
A faint ripple moved through the gallery.
Harrow leaned back slightly. "You are not charged beyond the stated period."
"I know."
"Then confine yourself to the matter before the court."
The bookseller nodded, though his eyes remained unfocused.
Sentence followed.
As he was led away, he spoke again, almost under his breath.
"I told my brother it was clean. It wasn't."
The constable pushed him gently toward the side door.
The third case began without incident. A cart driver accused of reckless conduct admitted the charge and stood silently for sentencing.
The fourth case did not.
A woman took the stand as a witness in a dispute between two neighbors over property damage. She was not charged. She had come to testify.
The prosecutor asked her to describe what she had seen.
"I saw Mr. Dalton strike the fence," she said.
"On what date?"
"Tuesday."
"And had you any prior dispute with Mr. Dalton?"
She hesitated.
"No."
The defense counsel rose. "Is it not true that you have quarreled with the defendant before?"
She shook her head.
"No."
"Not over noise? Or payment?"
"No."
There was a brief silence.
Then she said, without prompting, "I stole coal from him last winter."
The room went still.
The defense counsel blinked. "Madam?"
"I took it from his yard. Twice."
"You are not under accusation."
"I know."
She kept her eyes on the railing of the witness box.
"I meant to return it. I didn't."
The prosecutor glanced toward Harrow.
Harrow did not move.
"Confine your testimony to the incident at hand," he said.
"Yes."
She swallowed and continued describing the fence as if nothing had happened.
When she stepped down, her hands trembled.
The next defendant was called.
A tailor accused of threatening a debtor.
He admitted it before the charge was read.
"And I struck him last year," he added.
"You were not charged," Harrow said.
"I should have been."
A few heads turned in the gallery.
The tailor's voice grew strained. "I frighten people. I know I do."
"You are sentenced for the present offense," Harrow replied.
The tailor nodded and did not speak again.
By midday, the pattern had become impossible to ignore.
Defendants confessed before questioning.
Witnesses volunteered unrelated wrongdoing.
Even a constable, called to clarify details in a theft case, stumbled in his statement.
"I failed to file the report on time," he said abruptly. "Last month."
The prosecutor frowned. "That is not the matter before the court."
The constable flushed. "Yes."
He corrected himself and continued.
Harrow felt the room tightening, not in volume, but in attention. The gallery no longer murmured with curiosity. It listened.
The expectation had shifted. Silence before a plea felt incomplete.
When a young man charged with forgery paused too long before answering, someone in the back whispered, "Say it."
The man flinched.
"I did it," he said quickly.
A faint exhale moved through the benches.
The proceedings continued.
In the late afternoon, as the final case was being heard, a man seated near the aisle stood abruptly.
No one had called his name.
"I struck my employer last year," he said.
The court stilled.
"You will sit," Harrow said evenly.
The man did not move.
"I struck him," he repeated. "He said nothing because I paid him."
"You are not before the court," Harrow replied.
The man's hands shook.
"I know."
A constable moved toward him.
Harrow lifted a hand.
"State your name."
The man did.
Whitcombe's pen hovered.
Harrow considered him a moment.
"Your admission is noted," he said. "You will present yourself to the clerk after adjournment."
The man sat slowly.
The rest of the gallery stared straight ahead.
The final sentence of the day was delivered in near silence.
When the gavel fell, no one rose immediately.
They waited.
As if expecting more.
In chambers, Whitcombe closed the door behind them and stood with his back against it.
"Sir," he began quietly, "this is no longer limited to defendants."
Harrow removed his gloves and laid them beside the docket.
"It appears not."
"The witness. The man in the gallery."
"Yes."
Whitcombe hesitated. "Do you believe it is fear?"
Harrow considered.
"Perhaps."
"Of harsher sentencing?"
"Of being discovered."
Whitcombe swallowed. "And if they are confessing to things no one would have known?"
Harrow looked down at the docket, at the steady lines of ink marking each admission.
"Then it is better spoken than concealed."
Whitcombe did not answer.
From the corridor below came the sound of raised voices — not shouting, but overlapping speech. A murmur that did not settle.
Harrow stood.
"Tomorrow's docket," he said. "Begin with the assault cases."
"Yes, sir."
Whitcombe opened the door.
The murmur from below continued, low and persistent.
As Harrow stepped into the corridor, he caught fragments of it — men in holding cells speaking over one another, voices strained and insistent.
Not arguing.
Admitting.
He did not slow his stride.
The court would reconvene in the morning.
And when it did, he suspected there would be more to hear.