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“I understand the police are just tying up some loose ends,” said Maisie.

“I see.” Headley tapped a pen on the desk and began to fidget in a way that suggested he was keen to get on with his work. “And how can I help you?”

“I am curious to know what inspired you to support Dr. Liddicote in setting up the college. You have been a most generous supporter, and I understand the new building is to be called Headley Hall, in your honor.” Maisie took out her notebook, as if she were a newspaper reporter on assignment.

Headley tapped the pen for a few more seconds, then reached out towards a silver-framed photograph—it was one of several on the desk, and Maisie could see only the back of each frame. He held out the photograph for Maisie to take.

“That was my eldest son, Martin. He was killed in the war.”

“I am so sorry, I had no idea.” Maisie looked at the photograph of a young man in uniform; he bore a striking resemblance to Robson Headley, but appeared not to have his height.

“He was eighteen when he enlisted. When he came home on his last leave—he was nineteen by then—he showed me Greville’s book and told me how much it had touched him. He didn’t want to go back, Miss Dobbs; he was sick of the war, sick of what he had seen there, and he was in turmoil.” He took a deep breath, sighed, and then continued. “I discovered later—though there was nothing I could do about it—that he had been shot for desertion. Killed by his own. With that book in his hand, he had refused to fight.”

“I am so sorry, I never—”

“No, not many know. My son was never the most brave at school, would rarely speak up for himself. He was one of those boys who just wanted to get on with his life in his own way, with as little trouble as possible. My first wife passed away when he was eight years of age—what you might call the very worst kind of desertion, leaving a husband and small son.” He moved his head as if to shake off a memory, a picture in his mind that troubled him. “His mother’s death changed Martin in some ways—he became a very introspective young chap. I never imagined he would have it in him to join the business here, but when he enlisted, I thought that perhaps being in the army would do him some good. He didn’t say much, but what he said—about the war—shook me to the core. I lost my son, and I never wanted to see such a thing happen again. My son Robson was born to my second wife; he’s a quite different person. He has some memories of his brother—he looked up to him, as young boys will to a man in uniform. Robson’s twenty-four now and—unlike his brother—seems suited to joining the company.”

“So you supported Liddicote because Martin thought so much of his book?”

“In a way, that’s how it started. I became disgusted with the war.” He picked up his pen and resumed tapping it on the desk as he leaned forward. “If I have any discord with my suppliers, with my commercial partners overseas—I talk to them. Even if I have to be on a ship for weeks, I will appear in person and I talk to them. I sort it all out—business is too valuable to lose, especially in this day and age. I was disgusted with my country, with my government—that they could do no better than go to war.” He shook his head. “Never thought I would say that, to tell you the truth. I’m too busy to be a political sort. But they let me down, let my boy down, and let the country down—and they’ve been doing it ever since.”

“So you helped Liddicote in Martin’s memory?”

“Yes, I did. After Martin died, I felt compelled to find this Liddicote man, and when I did I realized that he was a lot more interesting than I thought he would be. You see, I don’t really have much time for these college types in town, but Liddicote seemed to talk sense: bring young people together from nations across the globe, teach them and let them go back and spread the word, prove that we don’t have to be at war with each other. It was just like his book—send the children among the soldiers to stop the war. It was the sort of thing that Martin would have taken up. He was