Barnaby had never thought about it. Now, doing so, he decided that Jennings was probably right. This conclusion depressed him beyond measure. Troy spoke into the deepening gloom.
‘Did you say this Mr Connings lost his sight, sir?’
‘Yes, some years before he died. Liam did everything for him after that and when Conninx became ill - at over ninety - he cared for him at home until he died.’
This didn’t sound to Barnaby like a man incapable of love, but he had no wish to dam up the nicely running stream by saying so.
‘When the will was read Liam was the sole beneficiary. He inherited the house, plenty of money and quite a lot of paintings. As is the way of things after an artist’s death, the critics discovered just how versatile and under-rated Conninx had been and within weeks the value of his canvases went shooting up. Then something rather awful happened. The word on Liam’s good fortune was round, of course. Dublin’s not that big a place and in any case the bequest was published in the Irish Times. The day after this was done Conor turned up. Half of everything, or he threatened to tell the police that Liam had not only connived in his father’s murder and helped to bury the body but had actually fired the shot that had killed him.’
‘And had he?’ asked Sergeant Troy.
‘He swore not. His story is that he hid in the barn next to Conor’s house while Conor went inside, supposedly just for some money and a change of clothes. But he was gone nearly three hours. When he returned it was to say that Hanlon wouldn’t be bothering them again. He’d be drawn no further. No doubt Liam was so relieved to have escaped he didn’t much care how dearly this freedom had been bought.’
‘But surely,’ said Barnaby, ‘having been under-age when all this happened he would have had nothing to fear from the police.’
‘Nothing serious,’ agreed Max. ‘He knew that and Conor must have known it too. But actuality, rationality if you like, had little to do with how Liam reacted to this new situation. It was the reintroduction of the past, you see. The terror of it. What frightens us as children frightens us all our lives.’
‘So how did he handle this new turn of events?’
‘Well, things were different this time round. Liam was older, pretty rich and with a widish circle of acquaintances, one or two of them quite influential. But Conor had also prospered, though not in ways that would perhaps bear close scrutiny. And his acquaintances were very unpleasant indeed. As to how Liam handled it . . . he did what he had done all those years before. Stalling Conor for as long as it took to put his own affairs in order, he ran away, this time making a thoroughly professional job of it. He went to England, chose a new name and completely re-invented himself.’
‘That’s a bit drastic, isn’t it?’ asked Sergeant Troy.
‘You wouldn’t think so if you’d heard him tell the story.’ Here Jennings broke off and drank a little water. Momentarily he looked preoccupied, as if distracted by a quite different train of thought. He put the glass down and brushed at his forehead as if brushing away some irritating insect.
‘This transformation was not only for reasons of concealment. He seemed to hold a rather touching belief that by determinedly altering external details and behaviour he would somehow be psychologically transformed.’
‘Every day in every way . . .’ quoted Barnaby.
‘Exactly. Up to a point, and on a fairly shallow level, this may be possible, but the wounds Gerald had received were far too deep, and deeply infected, to be even adequately cleaned by such simplistic methods. But, as everyone you must have spoken to must have confirmed, as far as the outward shell was concerned he did a brilliant job. By the time I met him he looked and sounded like your quintessential Englishman. Any gentleman’s club would have been proud to sign him on.’
Don’t know about that, muttered Troy silently. Catch him on an off night in his frilly nix and saucy veil and you’d have all the old gaffers in intensive care. Mine’s a triple by-pass, doctor, and easy on the rhino horn.
‘Obviously, the telling of this story was spread over some weeks. Gerald made it longer than was strictly necessary embroidering, offering up extraneous scenes like tempting titbits. Dropping Irish names that neither I nor, I imagine, anyone else much had ever heard of. It was plain he saw himself as a Scheherazade. As long as his unhappy tale held my attention we would continue to meet. When it ended . . .’ Jennings made a sudden awkward gesture of brutal farewell.
‘So he made no further physical approach?’
‘Of course not.’
‘But if he had fallen in love with you—’