Earl’s expression would have been comical if it hadn’t been prompted by the fact that Number One, Sandhill Lane, bore a sinister reputation for being the site of two murders, as well as a very close call for Elizabeth herself. She’d been unable to rent it out for that very reason.

“It was Wally’s idea,” she said, with a defensive shrug. “It was either there or the Tudor Arms, and Wally didn’t like the idea of them staying at the pub.”

The discordant thundering of the organ mercifully ceased as the bride reached Wally’s side. The service was brief and quite charming, causing Elizabeth to blink back tears as the happy couple joined hands as man and wife. They appeared to float down the aisle together, and Priscilla managed to look quite radiant, while Wally beamed brighter than a lighthouse.

His smile persisted throughout the arduous process of posing for the photographs. Indeed, there were smirks on many of the faces as the fussy photographer minced around on his toes and constantly waved a languid hand at the restless group of people lined up in his lens. He wore a rather outlandish outfit of black-and-white checkered trousers, a pale blue velvet jacket, and a long, black silk scarf, drawing some irreverent comments from the male guests.

He took so long posing everyone that Elizabeth felt quite chilly standing about in her flimsy frock, in spite of the balmy May afternoon. At long last the tiresome man seemed satisfied, and with Earl at her side, Elizabeth followed the crowd wandering down to the village hall.

Wally’s grin continued to stretch from ear to ear during the rather rowdy reception that followed. The organist played the piano with even more gusto than she had attacked the church organ. Accompanied by the members of Priscilla’s musical group, which included Wilf White on the mouth organ and a trumpeter who had earned the well-deserved stage name of Awful Ernie, the music was lively if somewhat less than harmonious.