The benches were full before the doors opened.
Harrow noticed it only in passing as he took his seat.
The faces were not new. Laborers with caps in hand. Housewives clutching shawls. Young clerks who had slipped away from offices. A few men from the docks who recognized one another and pretended not to.
There was a quietness to them that had not been present weeks before.
Not reverence.
Anticipation.
The first case was insignificant.
A boy of fifteen accused of lifting a length of copper wire from a construction site.
He stood thin and pale in the dock, hat twisting between his hands.
"You are charged with theft," Harrow said.
"Yes, sir."
The clerk had not yet finished reading the complaint.
"I took it," the boy added quickly.
The prosecutor blinked.
"You understand the charge?" Harrow asked.
"Yes, sir."
"For what purpose?"
"To sell."
"Why?"
The boy hesitated, then shrugged slightly. "Because I wanted the money."
A few murmurs drifted through the gallery.
There was no plea for sympathy. No mention of hunger. No sick mother invoked.
Just admission.
Harrow studied him a moment longer than required.
"You have not previously appeared before this court."
"No, sir."
The boy swallowed. "I won't again."
Harrow delivered sentence.
Two weeks' confinement.
The gavel struck.
The boy nodded as if the matter were concluded in proper order.
He did not protest as he was led away.
The second case involved a woman accused of selling watered gin.
She stepped forward before her name was fully read.
"I did it," she said.
The clerk paused.
"Did what, precisely?" Harrow asked.
"Sold it thin. Stretched it."
"And you understand that constitutes fraud?"
"Yes, sir."
"Have you done so before?"
She hesitated only briefly.
"Yes."
"How many times?"
She frowned, thinking. "Most weeks."
There was a stir in the gallery. Not loud. Just shifting feet.
The prosecutor began speaking again, outlining evidence that was no longer necessary.
Harrow allowed him to finish.
He pronounced sentence.
The woman dipped her head and accepted it without argument.
By midmorning, the pattern had grown difficult to ignore.
A cobbler charged with tax evasion admitted not only the present violation, but an additional quarter not yet audited.
A cart driver accused of striking a pedestrian volunteered that he had done the same once the previous winter, though no charge had been filed.
Each confession was offered without dramatic flourish.
No raised voices.
No trembling theatrics.
Just statements.
The clerk's pen moved faster than usual.
Whitcombe leaned toward the bench during a pause between cases.
"Sir," he murmured, low enough not to carry.
"Yes."
"They are volunteering more than asked."
Harrow did not look at him.
"They believe it will be discovered regardless."
Whitcombe hesitated. "Perhaps."
The next defendant stepped forward.
A seamstress accused of taking fabric from her employer's stockroom.
Before the witness spoke, she said quietly, "I took it. And I took thread before that."
The employer in the gallery blinked in surprise.
"I had not noticed the thread," he muttered.
The woman's voice remained steady. "I did."
Harrow regarded her carefully.
"You understand you are not charged with the prior incident."
"Yes, sir."
"Then why mention it?"
She shifted slightly in the dock.
"It seemed wrong not to."
There was no tremor in her tone.
Only something like relief.
Harrow delivered sentence.
The gavel fell.
When the woman was led away, the gallery remained still.
No one laughed.
No one argued.
It was as if the proceedings had become predictable in a new way.
After adjournment, Harrow returned to chambers.
Whitcombe followed.
"Sir," the clerk said, closing the door behind them, "I have spoken with a constable who brings in the prisoners at night."
"And?"
"He says many begin admitting things before being questioned."
"Such as?"
"Petty theft. Fights. Debts unpaid."
Harrow removed his gloves and laid them neatly beside the docket.
"Have the constables altered their method?"
"No, sir."
"Have we?"
Whitcombe hesitated. "No, sir."
Harrow sat.
The docket for tomorrow was already arranged.
He flipped through the pages.
The admissions had shortened proceedings by nearly an hour.
Fewer disputes.
Fewer cross-examinations.
The work was cleaner.
He closed the file.
"It will pass," he said.
Whitcombe blinked. "Sir?"
"Periods of agitation settle."
Whitcombe nodded, though he did not appear convinced.
Outside the window, the street carried its usual clatter—wheels, boots, distant argument, the call of a vendor advertising meat that had already begun to turn.
Nothing in the city suggested transformation.
Yet inside the courtroom, something had shifted.
Not in noise.
In posture.
Defendants no longer entered with rigid denial or bluster.
They entered already lowered.
Already prepared.
As though resistance had become more burdensome than admission.
Harrow rose.
"Prepare tomorrow's docket," he said. "Begin with the assault cases."
"Yes, sir."
When Whitcombe withdrew, Harrow stood alone for a moment.
He did not feel satisfaction.
He felt efficiency.
Proceedings moved.
Admissions came.
The court functioned without friction.
He adjusted the stack of papers until their edges aligned precisely.
Outside, the fog began to settle again as evening approached.
And by the next morning, there would be more.
More admissions.
More lowered eyes.
More voices beginning with the same two words.
"I did."