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Updated: May 6, 2025
"There's a big, old-fashioned clock in the surgery. Just as Dr. Wellesley went out I heard the Moot Hall clock chime half-past seven, and then the chimes of St. Hathelswide's Church. I noticed that our clock was a couple of minutes slow, and I put it right." "When did you next see Dr. Wellesley?" "At just eleven minutes to eight." "Where?" "In the surgery." "He came back there?" "Yes."
Faith's chapel in St. Hathelswide's church; there is another, also underground, from St. Matthias's Hospital to the God's House in Cripple Lane. There are others as I say, the old town is honeycombed. So there would be, of course, nothing unusual or remarkable in the presence of a secret passage between St. Lawrence tower and the Moot Hall.
"Got the weight of four hundred and eighty-one years of incorporation on him!" he said. "Lord! it's like living with generation after generation of your grandfathers slung round you! Four hundred and eighty-one years! Must have been in the bad old days when this mouldy town got its charter!" Next morning Brent buried the dead Mayor in St. Hathelswide's Churchyard, privately and quietly.
A strong, grim building, this; and when the iron gates are locked, as they are every night when the curfew bell an ancient institution jealously kept up in Hathelsborough rings from St. Hathelswide's tower, a man might safely wager his all to nothing that only modern artillery could effect an entrance to its dark and gloomy interior.
Hathelswide's Church, where the Vicar, as Mayor's Chaplain, would deliver a funeral oration. The procession would return subsequently to the Moot Hall, for wine and cake." Brent rubbed his square chin, staring hard at his visitor. "Um!" he said at last. "Well, there isn't going to be anything of that sort to-morrow.
Peppermore, she says, more wheedlingly than ever, 'was that, if it lay in your power, and if occasion arises, you would do what you could to keep my name out of it I don't want publicity! Um!" concluded Peppermore. "Pretty woman, Mr. Brent, and with taking ways, but of course I had to be adamant, sir firm, Mr. Brent, firm as St. Hathelswide's tower. 'The Press, Mrs.
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