Josephine Tey

by Jennifer Morag Henderson

  The Daughter of Time is not the first thing Beth wrote about Richard III. That was a play called Dickon. This play remained unpublished until after her death, but was probably written in the 1940s.7 Dickon dramatizes a period in the life of Richard, from just before the death of his brother, through his ascension to the throne and up until the night before the battle in which he lost his life. Like Richard of Bordeaux, it is a straight historical play. Dickon and The Daughter of Time both treat the same subject, and a comparison of them shows why one was a success and the other was not. It shows what was different in Beth’s novel writing to her playwriting, and why her novels have lasting popularity while her plays do not. It also shows some of the decisions Beth made as a writer, the way that she separated her ‘Gordon Daviot’ and ‘Josephine Tey’ identities, and how she brought them together towards the end of her life.

  In some ways, Beth’s plays are more polished than her mystery novels. The plays are like the final resolution, whereas the novels show their workings. The trouble is that the workings are sometimes more interesting. Dickon doesn’t argue against the portrayal of Richard III as an evil man, it just presents a picture of him as a good man. The Daughter of Time, in contrast, shows how Richard III was seen as the villain, before showing why this is not true. The real interest lies in how Tey reveals that what was previously believed is not true. Daviot’s play loses this altogether by choosing only to present the truth. Writing about history is always suffused with the attitudes of the period you are writing in: Richard of Bordeaux is not just a play about medieval times, it is a 1930s play about medieval times. The Daughter of Time is not only a book about the 1400s, but also a 1950s book about the 1400s. It is the prejudices of our time that create the mystery of Richard III, because it was after his death that opinions of him were revised. A play set in the 1400s loses this, but a novel set in the 1950s shows that it is not just the man himself that matters, but our interpretation of him.

  None of the flaws in Dickon make the play a bad piece of writing, but it is not outstanding, as The Daughter of Time is. In The Daughter of Time Alan Grant is the moral centre, and having established this it is easier for Tey to then create other characters around him, such as the boyish Brent Carradine. By using her established characters of Alan Grant and Marta Hallard, and by using the familiar framework of detective fiction, Tey was able to concentrate on Richard III. The reader does not need pages of explanation about who Alan Grant is and what he does – they know that a detective looks for the truth. Beth MacKintosh often gives the impression that she wasn’t writing primarily to entertain, she was writing to understand the world. Her work, both crime fiction and other works, such as Kif, fits into a moral framework: how and why people deviate from it is her concern. In The Daughter of Time this morality is matched perfectly with mystery and entertainment, creating a readable and thus more effective book.

  The Daughter of Time succeeds over Dickon because it has a point: Dickon doesn’t tell us why we should care about Richard: The Daughter of Time tells us something interesting (about Richard III) and also tells us, passionately and eloquently, why it matters. The real story of Dickon is given in the footnotes after the play while the play itself relies on the audience either knowing the story already (or reading the footnotes afterwards). The Daughter of Time, on the other hand, starts with a child’s history book and a child’s knowledge of history, then talks the reader through it, convincing them completely as it goes. Even the reader who has little or no interest in or knowledge of history can be swept along by Grant and Carradine’s conviction, skipping the parts about the Wars of the Roses if they get too confusing. Everything in the book – all of Tey’s knowledge of theatre and people and hospitals – is directed towards the one aim: to convince us of Richard III’s innocence – but we also care about her other characters, feeling Grant’s frailty, Marta’s kindness and sympathizing with Carradine when he comes dejected into Grant’s room.

  In 2013, the dramatic discovery of Richard III’s remains under a Leicester car park was widely reported, with a documentary following the entire process broadcast on Channel 4.8 The documentary had to set the scene by doing what Tey achieved in The Daughter of Time: show the average viewer just why a group of people (the Richard III Society) cared so much about a dead king’s reputation that they were willing to put enormous time, effort and money into the seemingly impossible task of finding his body. The Richard III Society exists to promote the revisionist ideas about Richard which Tey puts across so forcefully. They more generally aim to promote balanced historical research, rather than allowing history to be written by the victors, an admirable aim which even the least Ricardian can understand.

  The Richard III Society has been around since the 1920s. Josephine Tey was never a member, though, as The Daughter of Time shows, she was of course aware that other historians shared her view of Richard. Tey’s 1951 novel brought the views of the Society to a more general audience and increased their popularity so much that the Richard III Society website still dedicates a special section to Tey’s life and work for all enthusiasts who come to their society by that route. After Josephine Tey’s death she left the copyright to all her novels to the National Trust, who then had to field many queries about The Daughter of Time and its authenticity. Coincidentally, the person who took those queries, volunteer Isolde Wigram, was also the secretary and a prime mover in the revival of the Richard III Society, and so was well able to answer any question on the topic, and took great joy and pride in doing so.9 Since the 2013 discovery of Richard III’s body, Josephine Tey’s novel has attracted attention again. The novel has never been out of print, and is a constant fixture on bookshop shelves and in lists of the best-ever crime novels, and, in 1990, was voted the number one crime novel of all time by the UK Crime Writers’ Association.

  By the time of writing The Daughter of Time Tey was a confident enough writer to put in a few in-jokes: Grant knows all about Richard II because he saw Gordon Daviot’s play Richard of Bordeaux (four times). Marta is upset that a playwright is not writing plays for her because she is concentrating on her detective fiction. Mary, Queen of Scots (subject of a Daviot play) and the Covenanters (subject of a Daviot biography) are discussed at length – but in each of the discussions Grant expresses the kind of memorable opinions that are missing from Daviot’s treatment of each of those subjects. For example, here is Grant on the Covenanters: ‘The Covenanters were the exact equivalent of the I.R.A. in Ireland. A small irreconcilable minority, and as bloodthirsty a crowd as ever disgraced a Christian nation.’10 This is seventeenth-century Scottish history seen through the eyes of a man in the 1950s with Alan Grant’s moral code. We can read it and see it in context and enjoy hearing what Grant has to say, and how it relates to his argument about Richard III. Daviot’s Claverhouse is just as opinionated, but at rather convoluted length:

  This was that Solemn League and Covenant which has been the banner of the Presbyterian church ever since. Even more than the other covenants it was a worldly and bargaining document. Its six clauses (four civil and two ecclesiastical) added up to this: that the Scots would provide an army to help their brothers in God, the English non-conformists, against their King, on condition that Presbyterianism was imposed on Episcopal England.11

  The opinionated Josephine Tey who skims over myriad subjects as she continues on to her main argument is more fun and a better read than the sensible Gordon Daviot who explained thoroughly, but the key is that behind both Tey and Daviot is a woman who has thoroughly explored the topics she writes about, and who excels at her craft.

  In The Daughter of Time Beth MacKintosh achieved something brilliant, as she managed to make a genre that in the 1950s was sometimes dismissed as pulp fiction, a mystery novel, into something worthy of serious critical attention. By adhering to her own morality, and writing what she wanted, she achieved the respect she wanted and deserved. The structure of The Daughter of Time, with Alan Grant looking into a historical mystery, is superbly co
nceived, difficult to categorize, and made people sit up and take notice. Beth MacKintosh had found a way to synthesize her serious interests as Gordon Daviot and her popular form as Josephine Tey. It is tragic that this book was written just before her untimely death. Between this and the luminous The Singing Sands she was a writer coming into the full breadth of her powers.

  The Daughter of Time was first published in June 1951, and was reprinted the following month, and again in October.12 It was published first by Peter Davies, and they were very pleased with the sales. When the rights for a paperback edition were offered to Penguin’s Eunice Frost, and she wondered if the title might be too obscure for the book to sell well, Peter Davies took pride in relaying how many copies they had sold (15,000 at 9s 6d) and pointed out that they were onto their fourth reprint.13 Josephine Tey was a bestseller, and, although Penguin still wanted to put Gordon Daviot’s name somewhere on the book, her work was in demand. From the time Penguin published the book, through all the following decades, the book’s appeal to the general reader was made abundantly clear to them. In the Penguin archive, the file for The Daughter of Time is full of letter after letter from fans of the book who wrote to the publisher for more information about Richard III, and about Tey.14 Meanwhile, Daviot’s Richard of Bordeaux made its Edinburgh Festival debut in August 1951 as part of the Scottish Community Drama Association’s programme; To Love and Be Wise joined all Beth’s other novels by being published in the US; Next Time We Love was once more adapted for American radio; and the film industry came calling again as The Franchise Affair was made into a movie.

  The Franchise Affair was a British production, directed by Lawrence Huntington and starring real-life husband and wife Michael Denison and Dulcie Gray as Robert Blair and Marion Sharpe. Betty Kane was played by Ann Stephens. Unlike other adaptations of her work, this film was faithful to the source material. With a solid cast, the film was well received when it was released towards the end of the year.

  Opportunities were crowding in, but Beth was still feeling unwell, unable to take advantage of the freedom she now had. She visited her doctor in Inverness, and was told that the pain she was suffering was not life-threatening, and prescribed pills and rest.15 Given the fact of Colin’s recent death, and the stressful period Beth spent caring for him in the months before his death, it seemed a reasonable diagnosis. Beth followed her doctor’s orders, making no radical changes to her life (such as selling her house or moving away from the Highlands) and continuing with her work researching and writing – though she began to struggle with more physical aspects of housework. She stuck to the routine she had established before Colin’s death, taking a holiday in the springtime in Wadhurst in East Sussex, the part of England she liked best. This destination is close to Tunbridge Wells, where Beth’s last teaching post had been, before her life had been interrupted by the need to care for her parents. Her enjoyment of the holiday, however, was spoilt by constant nagging pain. What Beth’s doctor in Inverness had failed to diagnose was that Beth was suffering from liver cancer.

  Beth was already in a race against time – one that she seemed to be aware of, as her writing output increased, almost as if she knew she had to fit in as much as possible in the time available to her. January 1951 had brought more sad news, as the playwright James Bridie died. He was sixty-three years old. Beth had got on well with both him and his wife, and it was another unwelcome reminder of mortality. As Beth’s own health problems refused to clear up she coped by focusing on writing.

  The Privateer, like The Daughter of Time, was a fusion of the historical and the entertaining, but whereas The Daughter of Time was a Josephine Tey mystery novel, Beth chose to write The Privateer under the name of Gordon Daviot. It was three years since a Daviot play had appeared, and it was the first novel to appear under the Daviot name since The Expensive Halo, back in 1931. The publicity for the book mentioned Richard of Bordeaux, but didn’t really make the connection with Josephine Tey. The book was targeted at a different audience to Beth’s mystery novels, and was seen as serious historical fiction. Unlike The Daughter of Time, it has not remained in print. Frankly, it is almost a disappointment considering it comes between two of her best Josephine Tey novels. It certainly has a very different tone, and it was probably right to market it as being by Daviot. Many critics disagree with this assessment however, with some even seeing it as a highlight of Beth’s writing career. The book has been praised for its drama and suspense, and the characters’ well-drawn friendships, and was well received at the time, with a positive review in the New York Times.16

  The Privateer details the life of Welsh buccaneer Henry Morgan, a historical figure who may not be a household name today, but whose life story was well known at the time Beth was writing, as various books and films had been dedicated to him, including 1942’s The Black Swan. Gordon Daviot casts him as another of her ‘good men’: honourable and upright British heroes. Daviot had more time to dedicate to research now that she didn’t have to care daily for Colin, and there has obviously been considerable research and thought put into the book – but it is doesn’t have the impetus and freedom of her mysteries and she seems tied down by the historical facts, unable to let her own opinions alter the story too much. Despite the vividness of the scenes abroad, and the lush green of Morgan’s homecoming to Britain, Daviot’s depiction of Morgan’s love affairs, in particular, just doesn’t ring true. She is up against the problem of trying to impose the morality of her own times on him, and it doesn’t completely work.

  Beth worked on The Privateer throughout 1951, but she also had other writing going on, including the manuscript that was to be posthumously published as The Singing Sands. She was working at a furious rate, and, no matter what her doctor’s official diagnosis was, I think Beth must have sensed the need to finish what she could. She had actually written her will – and a remarkably individual will it was – in March, probably before taking her spring holiday to Wadhurst.17 In addition to this return to the scene of her last job and the end of her teaching career, she made one other trip to the ‘past’. The reassessment of her life which she had begun during the Second World War, and which had resulted in such a burst of creativity, was now superseded by a reassessment with a more personal urgency. After Colin’s death, a period of reflection would have been natural, but Beth must have been aware, at some level, of the potential seriousness of her illness.

  At an Anstey College reunion in 2010, I spoke to one former Anstey pupil who had a strong memory of Beth re-visiting the college in 1951.18 Pupils were told some time in advance that Josephine Tey, the author of Miss Pym Disposes, would be coming to Anstey, and were very excited to have the chance to meet her – there was an idea that she might be giving a talk. The novel’s depiction of college life was judged to be fair, and they were happy to feature in a bestselling mystery series. By 1951, the Scotswoman Miss Squire was principal of Anstey. She was to be the last principal, before the college linked up with other institutions and ceased to be independent. Miss Squire had many links to Scotland, and had met Beth at the Anstey Jubilee luncheon in 1949. Anstey was much bigger now than when Beth attended, with around 100 students, but it was still recognizably the same institution. It still meant a lot to Beth – she wanted to see it again. However, Beth didn’t meet any of the current pupils, and did not give a talk. Her health by this point was failing noticeably.

  At the start of October 1951, Beth wrote to Moire.19 It is a cheerful letter, but she expresses the wish that someone would help her just a bit more; organize things for her:

  I have always subconsciously HATED having to decide for myself, and all my life I have had to do it, in big things and small. As I became middle-aged the thing became a conscious longing to be able to sit back and have things decided for me; to be ‘cherished’, in fact. To have someone else book the tickets and look after the luggage and reckon the tips and deal with the bad manners […].

  It’s an aside, but it paints a clear picture of someone who has
always had to deal with the difficult things in life, and would like a rest. Although Beth mentions her doctor, it is only to say that he called her to say that he had seen a full-page article about The Daughter of Time in The Field, and offered to bring it round. Dr Iain Macleod may well have been choosing a subtle way of checking up on a patient, but Beth just thought it was a kind thing for a busy doctor to do – describing to Moire how much Dr Macleod had changed since they were pupils at the Academy together. There’s no real discussion of illness or how ill Beth is feeling. When Beth visited Moire towards the end of October, it was the first time they had met in person for some time, and Moire was shocked at the physical changes she saw in her sister. Moire insisted that Beth should go to her own GP, a Scotswoman called Janet McAllister McGill, for a second opinion on her illness. Dr McGill referred Beth immediately to the South London Hospital for Women. This well-respected institution on Clapham Common had been absorbed into the new NHS but it retained an all-female workforce.20 It had been one of the first hospitals to train women to be specialists, and all staff, from porters upwards, were women. Although NHS rules meant it now had to admit men, it still specialized in women’s treatment and care. Beth underwent an exploratory operation at the hospital, but it was too late. All that the nurses and doctors could do was to gently tell her that she was suffering from inoperable cancer, which had spread from her liver to her abdomen. She had only a matter of months left to live.