Wigan was a compact cluster of streets gathered around the parish church and the Market Place, bordered to the west by the river and to the east by the gentle slope of Mesnes Park. At this early hour, before the first tram rattled along Standishgate and before the market stallholders had begun setting up for the day, the town felt as though it belonged entirely to itself.
All Saints' Church, the parish church of Wigan, stood like a sentinel on its slight rise at the corner of Wallgate and Standishgate. The present building, constructed in pale Runcorn stone on the site of its medieval predecessor, stretched its west tower and spire high into the sky. In the early light, the stone still held the cold of the night just gone, its surface dotted with moisture from the river mist that clung to the lower streets. The clock face showed the hour, though its Roman numerals were barely readable in the dim light, its hands held steadily in place by the quiet, patient mechanism within.
