William made it all up.

“It always amazed me how someone I knew so little about could have such an impact on my life. I met Uncle Henry just once, he gave me my first record player and then died a year later in confidential circumstances. Dad went alone to the funeral and returned another layer of sanity skinned. All I had was a photo of Henry drinking from a jug of beer in the mountains of Ontario, and I got the impression if I’d asked anymore about him, I wouldn’t have liked what I heard. Henry was a myth. A rumour. A shape shifting ghost I happened to be related to.”

So they say.