Published in 1951, The Daughter of Time centres on a bedridden Scotland Yard inspector who starts investigating Richard III’s involvement in the death of his nephews, the two princes in the Tower. As far as detective stories go, it’s certainly different, but Josephine Tey makes it worth reading.
But that’s not what interests me in this review. What strikes me when I read books set in the UK from this era is the complete lack of Muslims. Read any novel written by an author from Great Britain up until the 80s, and you’d be hard pressed to believe Muslims even existed. (I’m currently reading a novel published in 1978, which is set in a British seaside town, and it’s Whitesville double plus.)
Out of interest, I did a bit of research on the Muslim population in the UK at the time Tey wrote this. In 1950, Muslims comprised 0.2 per cent of the population, or a paltry 101,232 people (by contrast, in 2010 they accounted for 4.0 per cent, or a whopping invasion force of 2,475,971).
It’s no wonder Tey wasn’t writing about bearded Muhammadans stabbing people willy-nilly in the street, or running them over, or setting off bombs at concerts, or working in gangs to groom and rape teen girls. There just weren’t enough of them to whiteant the foundations of a Christian civilisation. Which is why I think these novels remain popular (although the average libtard reader will dispute it); on a subconscious level, the stolid middle-class whiteness of her England is a lost world to which many would love to return. Sure, we might not want everything the 1950s had to offer, but the London of Inspector Grant is immeasurably superior to the London of Sadiq Khan (where terrorism today is as ordinary as politeness was in the 50s).
Three cheers for books without Muslims, vibrants, and their leftist enablers.