“You’re asking a journalist if she wants to hear a story?”

Sebastian has a nice laugh, deep and round. It’s rare and nicer because of it.

“There was a murder there in the 1950s. The house isn’t actually too much older than that. It was built by an Englishman named Jonathan Peele, the youngest son of an earl, who wanted to re-create the manor house where he was raised. Rumor says he was chased out of England by older brothers and told never to return.”

I was sorry we couldn’t get close enough to see it better. “What did people think of Peele and his little castle?”

“I’m told they didn’t think well. He was haughty and something of a recluse and when he came out of hiding, he insisted everyone call him the Honourable Jonathan Peele. He married a young woman from New York, and then, mysteriously, she simply disappeared. Nobody knew what had happened to her, but years later, another wife took her place. And when he decided to introduce her to local society, that’s when the murder occurred.”

Having grown up in Florida, I was surprised I’d never heard this tale. “This sounds like a lurid gothic novel. Or something very Agatha Christie.”

“It does, doesn’t it? A huge party was staged, and everyone of note was invited. Most likely every guest wanted to see the new wife and learn what had happened to the old one. But the night of the party, they were greeted by security guards who turned them away. It seems Mrs. Peele—or would she be ‘Honourable,’ too? Anyway, she’d taken sick, and the master of the house was at her bedside with a local doctor and didn’t wish to be disturbed.”

I was entranced. The story was fascinating, and Sebastian told it well. “I assume she died?”

“Unfortunately, yes. And when her body was carried out, the police went straight in and arrested Jonathan Peele. Eventually he was convicted of her murder, later ruled a death by arsenic. The house was abandoned for years, then sold and nearly demolished until it was saved and turned into a small hotel by a young couple from California.”

“What happened to Peele?”

“He died in prison, but five years ago, the maid who had attended both wives, admitted that she had poisoned them. She’d been hopelessly in love with Peele and wanted him for herself. Everything had worked against him, of course. He was unsympathetic. He had isolated himself, and there were stories about his past in England, along with the house itself, which everyone believed was a hopeless eyesore. He was tried in the public eye and convicted long before any court heard his case.”

I digested everything, hypnotized by what had the makings of a great PBS series. “What a story, Sebastian. I can’t believe I haven’t heard it before this.”

He was silent so long I thought he was finished. Then he turned to me. “You haven’t heard it because I just made the whole thing up.”