The Watch and the Lie

"A false word, once spoken, binds tighter than any chain, and its weight is borne not by the liar, but by the fool who trusted him."

The gavel struck once more, its sharp crack splitting the low murmur of the courtroom like the snap of a whip across bare skin. The sound ricocheted off the oak panels, reverberating into every corner until even the faintest whisper died away. Judge Blackwood’s eyes swept the room, cold and unwavering, pinning each soul beneath their weight. Beneath the heavy folds of his full-bottomed wig, his mouth was set in a frown so deep it seemed carved into his very flesh—the permanent mark of a man who had spent a lifetime staring into the darker recesses of human nature, and found little there worth softening his expression.

I sat frozen in the dock, my fingers clamped hard around the wooden rail. My knuckles blanched white with the force of it, and still I held on, as though letting go would send me tumbling into the abyss yawning at my feet. My heart pounded in my chest with a weight that made the air seem thick, each beat reverberating in my ears like a muffled drum sounding the march to the gallows.

“The Crown calls Constable Silas Greaves to the stand,” declared Bartholomew Ashford, the prosecutor. His voice rang clear, cutting and resonant, filling the space with ease. It was a voice cultivated for command, honed by years of schooling in halls far removed from the humble parish room where I had learned my letters.

He moved as he spoke, his black silk gown swaying with grace, the fabric whispering against itself. The silver buttons of his waistcoat caught the light streaming in through the tall, leaded windows, gleaming like newly minted coin. Even the smallest detail of his appearance seemed designed to impress upon the court his mastery of the moment, to cast him as the voice of reason and law against the solitary figure in the dock—me.

A shuffle of movement broke the taut stillness, drawing my eyes to the figure of Constable Greaves as he made his way to the witness box. He was a stout man, built solid as a dockside bollard, his gait steady and deliberate. The years of service showed plainly upon him: a face furrowed by weather and wear, cheeks reddened by wind and ale, eyes sharpened by long nights spent prowling Portsmouth’s alleys. His uniform was pressed neatly for the occasion, yet no starch could quite disguise the softened creases of age or the honest wear that came from years of duty rather than ceremony.

The silver buttons of his tunic gleamed, polished bright for this day of judgment, while the black leather of his belt creaked faintly with each step. His hand brushed against the truncheon at his side, so naturally it seemed unconscious, a gesture of long habit born from walking streets where a man’s grip on the law might be tested in the dark.

The clerk stepped forward, his every movement rehearsed into ritual. He presented the Bible with the solemnity of one who had done so a hundred times before. The book itself was old, its black leather binding worn smooth, its edges softened by the press of countless palms. It seemed to hold not only the promise of truth but the burden of all the oaths spoken over it, each one lingering like a shadow.

Greaves placed his broad, work-roughened hand upon the cover, the skin scarred and calloused from years of gripping baton and blade. His voice, steady and unflinching, filled the room as he gave the words:

“I swear by Almighty God that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

The cadence was familiar, practised, and yet it carried the weight of finality. My stomach tightened. In that moment, the oath seemed less a promise to God than a sentence already spoken.

As Greaves began his testimony, his thick fingers spread wide across the edge of the witness box, gripping the polished wood as though bracing himself against a swell at sea. The stance suited him: solid, immovable, a man rooted in his purpose. His voice carried easily, deep and sure, the kind of voice that had long grown accustomed to carrying authority in the streets and to retelling its account beneath the gaze of the law.

“It was just past noon, My Lord,” he began, each word deliberate, his cadence slow. “I was on my regular patrol along the High Street when I spotted the accused, William Jeffries, loitering near Mr Blackwell's stall.”

The word struck like a lash. Loitering. I felt my jaw clench hard, my teeth grinding as I bit back the urge to protest. To hear him cast me in such light—as though I were some shiftless vagrant, skulking idly without purpose—ignited a flame of anger in my chest. Yet the word lingered, damning and heavy, settling over the room like smoke.

I knew the truth of it. I hadn’t been loitering. I had been speaking with Thomas Hawley—Jack, as most called him—his crooked grin and easy words still clear in my memory. But I doubted that fine a distinction would carry weight here. In this chamber, words like loitering painted me in colours too bold to wash away.

A bead of sweat traced a cold path down the line of my spine despite the morning’s chill. The air inside the courtroom was close, thick with bodies and the faint, sour scent of wool, ink, and stale tobacco. My shirt clung damply to my back, the fabric itching and uncomfortable, and I fought the urge to shift against the unyielding hardness of the dock’s bench. Any movement, I thought, might betray me, might mark me as restless or guilty. And so I sat, rigid and still, even as the perspiration prickled my skin and my pulse thundered in my ears.

The memory surged, sudden and unbidden, dragging me back to the High Street as it had been that day. The cobbles gleamed wet from a recent shower, their slick, uneven surfaces catching shards of watery sunlight that broke fitfully through the drifting clouds. The street pulsed with life: barrows groaned as their wheels rattled over the stones, vendors called their wares in voices sharpened to cut above the clamour, and gulls wheeled overhead, their cries harsh against the salt-tinged air. The scent of fresh bread wafted warm from the baker’s stall, twining with the briny tang of the harbour—a mingling that had once meant comfort, familiarity. That day it seemed a taunt, a reminder of what was slipping from my grasp.

Jack’s voice rose from the din as if conjured by memory itself, smooth and coaxing, curling around me like the smoke from his clay pipe.
“You’re looking for a bit of coin, aren’t you?”

He leaned carelessly against the corner of Harrison’s stall, the picture of idleness, though the sharpness of his grin betrayed more than indolence. His red hair caught the pale light, glinting like dull copper freshly polished, and his eyes gleamed with a predatory amusement that should have sent me walking on.

I remembered the feel of Father’s crumpled list in my hand, the paper soft from his rough fingers. The cooper had asked for three barrel hoops mended, and it was my task to strike a fair bargain. Honest work. Straightforward. Yet the question gnawed even as I clutched the note: where was the money to come from?

“I’ve enough for what I need,” I told him, though my voice betrayed the uncertainty I could not conceal. Jack’s grin spread wider, flashing teeth stained yellow with tobacco.

“Come now, Jeffries. A lad like you could use a little extra. Just a quick favour, and you’ll be on your way. You’ve seen it yourself—old Blackwell clutching his wealth like a miser with his gold, while honest folk break their backs to scrape by.”

The words had seemed harmless then, spoken with a practised ease that made them sound almost reasonable. Yet there had been something in his gaze—sharp, calculating—that should have warned me.

But my mind wavered, pulled taut between caution and need. Mother’s shoes, patched until there was more thread than leather. Father’s cough, that deep, racking bark that robbed him of sleep and strength with each passing night. They weighed upon me as heavily as the list in my hand.

I should have walked away. Should have heard Father’s warning echoing in my ear, steady as the tide: Them as speaks of easy money usually means to make it easy for themselves and hard for you. But desperation—cruel, insistent, gnawing—stilled my steps.

I paused. And in that pause, fate reached out and ensnared me in its web.

“Go on, Constable,” Ashford prompted, his voice as smooth and polished as the silver buckles on his shoes. He stood with the poise of a man who knew the room belonged to him. His silver-streaked wig gleamed beneath the shafts of morning light, immaculate and untouched by haste, while his hand rose and fell with deliberate flourishes, as if conducting the very course of the proceedings. Even the cadence of his words was calculated—measured to impress upon the jury not only the seriousness of the charge, but the inevitability of my guilt.

Greaves inclined his head, a soldier obeying his general’s call, and shifted his weight in the box. The wood beneath his broad hands creaked faintly as he straightened, his shoulders squaring with the confidence of a man long accustomed to having his word believed. His voice, when it came, was steady, even—pitched to the ear of the jury like a story told often enough to become truth.

“I observed the accused for several minutes,” he began, his eyes roving deliberately across the room, bold and unflinching, daring contradiction. “He appeared nervous, glancing about as though checking to see if he was being watched. Then, quick as a flash, he reached into Mr Blackwell's coat and took a pocket watch from his inside pocket.”

The words dropped like stones into water, sending ripples through the chamber. A murmur rose from the gallery, swelling like the crest of a wave before breaking into a sea of whispers. Fans fluttered furiously behind pale hands, their painted feathers trembling like wings in agitation. Women bent their heads together, trading low words sharpened with scandal, while several merchants leaned back with satisfied smirks, exchanging glances heavy with vindication. In their eyes, my supposed guilt was not merely likely—it was proof of what they had always believed about men of my class.

My breath caught, my chest tightening as though a noose had already been drawn about my neck. Heat surged behind my eyes, frustration and disbelief tangling into a knot I could not loosen. The lie of it—so clean, so brazen—gnawed at me until I thought I might choke.

“That’s a lie,” I whispered, the words torn from me before I could stop them. They came no louder than a breath, barely enough for my own ears, yet they burned bitter on my tongue. I knew better than to rise, to interrupt the careful performance being woven against me. But silence did nothing to cool the fire of injustice clawing at my chest.

Greaves pressed on, his words delivered with the steady assurance of a man reciting a well-rehearsed tale. His hand gripped the edge of the witness box, fingers spread wide across the polished wood, his stance as firm as a captain bracing himself against a sudden gale.

“After witnessing the theft,” he declared, his voice smooth, unhesitating, “I moved in immediately. The accused attempted to flee but was apprehended before he could take more than a few steps.”

The gallery stirred at once, the murmur swelling like a tide pulled by a relentless moon. I felt the shift in the air as surely as if a wave had broken over me. Judgement pressed in from all sides, a suffocating weight borne not of evidence but of presumption. Their stares clung to me, sharp as nails, their disdain so heavy it seemed it might crush me where I sat.

My fists clenched hard against the rail of the dock, the wood biting into my palms. My knuckles shone white, every muscle in my hands tight with fury and despair. It wasn’t true. It wasn’t me. I had not stolen anything. That cursed pocket watch—damn it, damn it—had been forced upon me by Jack Hawley not seconds before Greaves had come striding through the crowd.

“Hold this a moment,” Jack had said, his words quick, tossed with the casual urgency of a man passing a pipe or a coin.

I remembered the shock of it—the sudden weight of cold metal pressed into my palm, the gleam of its surface unfamiliar and accusing. I’d hesitated, confused, the question half-formed on my lips. But before I could speak, before I could even draw breath, Jack was gone.

Vanished.

One heartbeat he had stood beside me, his copper hair catching the sunlight, his grin sly and knowing. The next, he was swallowed by the jostling press of the marketplace, gone as suddenly as smoke whisked away on the wind. And I was left—alone, bewildered, clutching the damning relic of a crime I had never chosen to commit.

The memory surged with cruel clarity, carrying with it the smells and sounds of that afternoon: the damp tang of rain-soaked cobblestones rising sharp from the ground, the harsh cries of gulls wheeling and swooping overhead, the calls of vendors colliding in a clamorous chorus of “Fresh mackerel!” and “Fine ribbons, cheap!”

It should have been an ordinary day, unremarkable in every respect. A day of errands, of sums, of barrels and ledgers. Instead, it had become a pivot on which my life turned, seared into my memory as the instant everything unravelled and led me here—to the dock, to this courtroom, to the edge of exile.

I swallowed hard, the motion painful, as though the truth itself were lodged in my throat, desperate to be spoken yet strangled into silence. Every instinct in me screamed to rise, to shout it into the vaulted chamber—to tell them all how it had been. But what good would it do? Jack Hawley was gone, vanished like mist before the sun, no doubt already far from Portsmouth, his grin lingering like a spectre while I was left to bear the weight of his mischief. I could almost see him still: leaning back with that sly, careless grin, the stem of his pipe clenched between his teeth, smoke unfurling lazily about him like a cloak he wore too easily.

The memory of the watch was sharper than any blade. I could still feel its weight in my palm, heavier than gold had any right to be. Its surface had been smooth, cold, catching the pale light with a treacherous gleam. I remembered the fine details of its case—two swallows engraved in flight, their wings poised mid-arc, delicate lines etched with a craftsman’s care. A thing of beauty, unmistakably precious, the sort of possession that bespoke both wealth and pride.

My heart had thundered as I looked upon it, confusion laced with dread. I hadn’t asked for it, hadn’t wanted it, and yet there it was, shining accusingly in my hand. The bustle of the market had blurred about me, voices and footsteps dissolving into nothing, until all that existed was the cool press of that watch against my skin—and then Greaves’s iron grip.

His hand had clamped down on my arm with the certainty of a snare. The strength of his fingers bit deep into my flesh, bruises blooming in their wake, a mark of guilt I could never scrub away. His voice, when it came, had been a cold sneer, a sound that cut deeper than the grip of his hand.

“What have we here, then?” he had said, prising the watch from my grasp with grim satisfaction, as though plucking a prize from a trap. His eyes gleamed with the triumph of a cat that had cornered its mouse. “Caught red-handed, no less. Won’t Mr Blackwell be interested to hear about this?”

The recollection struck me now with the force of a blow, sharp and cruel. My chest tightened, my breath catching as anger and helplessness surged through me in equal measure. I blinked hard, forcing my lungs to draw air, willing the storm within me to quiet lest it spill over and damn me further.

The sharp crack of the gavel tore me back to the present, the sound ricocheting through the chamber and reverberating in my chest like the beat of a war drum. Judge Blackwood’s gaze swept over the crowd, his hawk-like eyes narrowing, his very presence enough to quell the rising tide of murmurs. The whispers faltered, then died altogether, leaving a silence thick and oppressive, as though the very air had turned to stone about us.

“Order.” The word fell from the judge’s lips like a slab of granite, cold and immovable, carved with the same severity as the walls themselves.

“Thank you, Constable Greaves,” Ashford said smoothly, bowing his head in that perfunctory politeness which cost him nothing. He turned to face the jury, his silver-streaked wig catching the shafts of sunlight that streamed through the high leaded panes, each glimmer another arrow in his arsenal. “As you’ve heard, gentlemen of the jury, the accused was apprehended in the very act, leaving no room for doubt about his guilt.”

No room for doubt. The words struck like hammer blows. My fists closed hard around the rail before me, the polished wood digging deep into my palms. I pressed so tightly I could feel the fibres of the timber splintering against my skin, tiny pricks of pain that seemed only to sharpen the helplessness gnawing at me.

I forced my gaze to the gallery. Mother sat pale but upright, her composure brittle as glass. Her hands worked a handkerchief in her lap with ceaseless motion, twisting and folding the linen until her knuckles blanched white. Father beside her was carved from stone, his jaw clenched so tight I thought it might crack. His eyes never left the judge, burning with the stubborn will of a man who had weathered tempests at the docks and now willed this court to see truth as clearly as he did. Their silent prayers, their quiet faith—it cut deeper than any jeer from the crowd.

And then I saw him.

Behind them, half-hidden at the back of the chamber, lounged Thomas Hawley. Jack. His copper hair was tucked beneath a shapeless cap, but there was no mistaking the curve of his grin. Our eyes met—just for a breath—and in that moment he lifted his shoulders in the faintest of shrugs. A gesture slight as smoke, but heavy as lead. What’s done is done.

It was all I needed to see.

The cruelty of it struck like a blade to the gut. Not rage, not fire, but a cold stone weight settling deep inside me. In that one careless motion, that shrug of indifference, I saw the sum of him: a man who could sacrifice another with no more thought than flicking ash from his pipe. And I knew, as surely as I knew the walls of this gaol, that I bore the cost of his freedom.

Judge Blackwood shifted in his high seat, the faint rustle of his robes cutting across the silence like a warning drumbeat. The sound was slight, but it carried, a signal to all assembled that the proceedings were to march grimly onward. His heavy-lidded eyes settled on Ashford, and when he spoke, his voice bore the same iron gravity as the gavel itself.

“Mr Ashford, you may proceed with your next question.”

Ashford inclined his head, his wig bobbing faintly with the gesture. He turned back to Greaves, his voice warm with confidence, every syllable polished and sharpened for effect.

“Constable Greaves, in your professional opinion, was there any doubt that the accused had taken the watch directly from Mr Harrison’s person?”

I closed my eyes for the briefest moment, bracing myself against the inevitable. I knew what would come next—the lies, layered one upon another, neat as stacked cordwood, building a wall too high for me to climb. Each falsehood would slot cleanly into place, forming a structure that no protest of mine could shake. And at the end of it waited exile—seven long years in Botany Bay, if I lived long enough to see its shores. All the while Jack Hawley, the architect of my ruin, would be free to laugh, to drink, to spin his next web for some other unsuspecting soul.

The sunlight, stronger now, streamed through the high windows, painting the floor with lattices of shadow. The beams stretched long and thin, like the fingers of the law itself, reaching down to bind me in place. It seemed as though the room were closing in, the air thickening with the weight of judgment.

Beyond those walls, Portsmouth carried on, oblivious. I could hear it faintly—the groan of cartwheels on the cobbles, the gulls crying over the harbour, the bell of some distant church carried on the cool September breeze. Life outside continued, unconcerned, while within this chamber every breath I took balanced upon a thread no stronger than a strand of spider’s silk. Fragile, perilous, and ready to snap at the slightest touch.