The Fraud: A Novel

by Zadie Smith

Genres: Family Life

Synopsis

The instant New York Times bestseller.

From acclaimed and bestselling novelist Zadie Smith, a kaleidoscopic work of historical fiction set against the legal trial that divided Victorian England, about who gets to tell their story—and who gets to be believed

It is 1873. Mrs. Eliza Touchet is the Scottish housekeeper—and cousin by marriage—of a once-famous novelist, now in decline, William Ainsworth, with whom she has lived for thirty years.

Mrs. Touchet is a woman of many interests: literature, justice, abolitionism, class, her cousin, his wives, this life and the next. But she is also sceptical. She suspects her cousin of having no talent; his successful friend, Mr. Charles Dickens, of being a bully and a moralist; and England of being a land of facades, in which nothing is quite what it seems.

Andrew Bogle, meanwhile, grew up enslaved on the Hope Plantation, Jamaica. He knows every lump of sugar comes at a human cost. That the rich deceive the poor. And that people are more easily manipulated than they realize. When Bogle finds himself in London, star witness in a celebrated case of imposture, he knows his future depends on telling the right story.

The “Tichborne Trial”—wherein a lower-class butcher from Australia claimed he was in fact the rightful heir of a sizable estate and title—captivates Mrs. Touchet and all of England. Is Sir Roger Tichborne really who he says he is? Or is he a fraud? Mrs. Touchet is a woman of the world. Mr. Bogle is no fool. But in a world of hypocrisy and self-deception, deciding what is real proves a complicated task. . . .

Based on real historical events, The Fraud is a dazzling novel about truth and fiction, Jamaica and Britain, fraudulence and authenticity and the mystery of “other people.”

PRAISE FOR THE AUDIOBOOK

“With the virtuosic agility of an actor in a one-woman play, Smith as narrator so fully embodies each of her many distinct characters that she exposes, sometimes without their even knowing, the ways in which every one of us misrepresents ourselves in one way or another. This is a 19th-century novel of manners in which various people have very bad ones, and the result, thanks to the author’s perfect ear for comic timing, is vigorously, insistently funny…Smith bounces nimbly across the vernacular empire while leaving no mistake about her ubiquitous irony, her vocal side eye.” — Lauren Christensen, The New York Times Book Review

“Smith expertly performs her historical novel inspired by true events…Smith’s performance possesses considerable emotional depth, and she delivers lines with her characteristic searing wit. Smith’s ear for accents turns into perfectly performed dialogue for characters from every corner of London.” — The Millions

Release date: September 5, 2023

Publisher: Penguin Press

Print pages: 463

Sample

1. A Very Large Hole

A filthy boy stood on the doorstep. He might be scrubbed of all that dirt, eventually – but not of so many orange freckles. No more than fourteen, with skinny, unstable legs like a marionette, he kept pitching forward, shifting soot into the hall. Still, the woman who’d opened the door – easily amused, susceptible to beauty – found she couldn’t despise him.

‘You’re from Tobin’s?’

‘Yes, missus. Here about the ceiling. Fell in, didn’t it?’

‘But two men were requested!’

‘All up in London, missus. Tiling. Fearsome amount of tiling needs doing in London, madam . . .’

He saw of course that she was an old woman, but she didn’t move or speak like one. A high bosom, handsome, her face had few wrinkles and her hair was black. Above her chin, a half-moon line, turned upside down. Such ambiguities were more than the boy could unravel. He deferred to the paper in his hand, reading slowly:

‘Number One, St James-es Villas, St James-es Road, Tunbridge Wells. The name’s Touch-it, ain’t it?’

From inside the house came a full-throated Ha! The woman didn’t flinch. She struck the boy as both canny and hard, like most Scots.

‘All pronunciations of my late husband’s name are absurd. I choose to err on the side of France.’

Now a bearded, well-padded man emerged behind her in the hall. In a dressing gown and slippers, with grey through his whiskers and a newspaper in hand, he walked with purpose towards a bright conservatory. Two King Charles spaniels followed, barking madly. He spoke over his shoulder – ‘Cousin, I see you are bored and dangerous this morning!’ – and was gone.

The woman addressed her visitor with fresh energy: ‘This is Mr Ainsworth’s house. I am his housekeeper, Mrs Eliza Touchet. We have a very large hole on the second floor – a crater. The structural integrity of the second floor is in question. But it is a job for two men, at the very least, as I explained in my note.’

The boy blinked stupidly. Could it really be on account of so many books?

‘Never you mind what it was on account of. Child, have you recently been up a chimney?’

The visitor took exception to ‘child’. Tobin’s was a respectable firm: he’d done skirting boards in Knightsbridge, if it came to that. ‘We was told it was an emergency, and not to dawdle. Tradesmen’s entrance there is, usually.’

Cheek, but Mrs Touchet was amused. She thought of happier days in grand old Kensal Rise. Then of smaller, charming Brighton. Then of this present situation in which no window quite fit its frame. She thought of decline and the fact that she was tied to it. She stopped smiling.

‘When entering a respectable home,’ she remarked, lifting her skirts from the step to avoid the dirt he had deposited there, ‘it is wise to prepare for all eventualities.’

The boy pulled off his cap. It was a hot September day, hard to think through. Shame to have to move a finger on such a day! But cunts like this were sent to try you, and September meant work, only work.

‘I’ll come in or I won’t come in?’ he muttered, into his cap.

2. A Late Ainsworth

She walked swiftly across the black and white diamonds of the hall, taking the stairs two at a time without touching the banister.

‘Name?’

‘Joseph, ma’am.’

‘It’s narrow here – mind the pictures.’

Books lined the landing like a second wall. The pictures were of Venice, a place he’d always found hard to credit, but then you saw these dusty old prints in people’s houses so you had to believe. He felt sorry for Italian boys. How do you go about tiling a doorstep with water coming right up to it? What kind of plumbing can be managed if there’s no basement to take the pipes?

They arrived at the library disaster. The little dogs – stupid as they looked – skittered right to the edge but no further. Joseph tried standing as Tobin himself would, legs wide, arms folded, nodding sadly at the sight of this hole, as you might before a fallen woman or an open sewer.

‘So many books. What’s he need with them all?’

‘Mr Ainsworth is a writer.’

‘What – so he writ them all?’

‘A surprising amount of them.’

The boy stepped forward to peer into the crater, as over the lip of a volcano. She joined him. These shelves had held histories three volumes deep: the kings, queens, clothes, foods, castles, plagues and wars of bygone days. But it was the Battle of Culloden that had pushed things over the edge. Anything referring to Bonnie Prince Charlie was now in the downstairs parlour, covered in plaster, or else caught in the embrace of the library’s Persian rug, which sagged through the hole in the floor, creating a huge, suspended, pendulous shape like an upturned hot air balloon.

‘Well, now you see, madam, and if you don’t mind me saying’ – he picked up a dusty book and turned it over in his hand with a prosecutorial look on his face – ‘the sheer weight of literature you’ve got here, well, that will put a terrible strain on a house, Mrs Touchet. Terrible strain.’

‘You are exactly right.’

Was she laughing at him? Perhaps ‘literature’ was the wrong word. Perhaps he had pronounced it wrong. He dropped the book, discouraged, knelt down, and took out his yardstick to measure the hole.

---

*

Just as he was straightening up, a young child ran in, slid on what was left of the parquet and overturned an Indian fern. She was pursued by a nice-looking, bosomy sort in an apron, who managed to catch the child moments before she fell through the house. ‘Clara Rose! I told you – you ain’t allowed. Sorry about that, Eliza.’ This was said to the prickly Scot, who replied: ‘That’s quite all right, Sarah, but perhaps it’s time for Clara’s nap . . .’ The little Clara person, in response to being held so tight at the waist, cried: ‘No, Mama, NO!’ – yet seemed to be addressing the maid. The boy from Tobin’s gave up all hope of understanding this peculiar household. He watched the maid grasp the child, too hard, by the wrist, as mothers did round his way. Off they went. ‘A late Ainsworth,’ explained the housekeeper, righting the fern.

3. A New Spirit of the Age

Downstairs, the Morning Post lay discarded by an uneaten breakfast. William sat brooding, his chair facing the window. There was a brown paper package in his lap. He started at the sound of the door. Was she not meant to see him in his sadness?

‘Eliza! Miladies! There you are. I thought you’d abandoned me . . .’

The dogs arrived panting at his feet. He didn’t look down or stroke them.

‘Well, I’m afraid it’ll be a week at least, William.’

‘Hmmm?’

‘The ceiling. Tobin only sent one boy.’

‘Ah.’ As she reached for his breakfast things he put a hand out to stop her: ‘Leave that. Sarah will take that.’ Then stood up, and seemed to glide away in his slippers, silent as a shade.

Something was wrong. Her first instinct was to check the newspaper. She read the front page and scanned the rest. No friends suddenly dead or disturbingly successful. No unusual or uniquely depressing news. More working men were to be allowed to vote. Criminals were no longer to be transported. The Claimant had been found not to speak a word of French, although the real Roger Tichborne grew up speaking it. She put everything back on the tray. As she understood it, Sarah’s opinion was that breakfast trays were now beneath her dignity. Yet no maid had been hired to replace her, and so it fell to Mrs Touchet.

Turning to leave, she tripped on something – the package. It was a book, unwrapped only so far as to reveal the title: A New Spirit of the Age, by R. H. Horne. It was a long time since she’d seen that book. Not quite long enough to forget it. She picked it up and looked furtively around the room – she hardly knew why. Opening it, she hoped she would be mistaken, or that possibly it was a new edition. But it was the very same volume of literary critiques, and with the same short, damning entry on her poor cousin, towards the back.

Twenty years ago, the publication of this book had merely darkly clouded one dinner party and mildly spoiled the morning after. Back then William was not so easily deflated. She brought the two sides of the torn brown paper together. No postmark. But it was addressed in a clear hand to the man whose life’s work was summarized within as ‘generally dull, except when it is revolting’.

4. The Lady of the House

A misfortune of the Tunbridge house: everything could be heard, room to room, top to bottom. But William walked the dogs each morning around eleven. As soon as the front door closed, Mrs Touchet moved to intercept Sarah. She found her kneeling in the downstairs parlour with her child, surrounded by splayed books with broken spines. Three stacks were being organized, evidently according to size. Mrs Touchet wondered if she might be of any assistance.

‘No, we’re getting on very well, thanking you, Eliza, I mean to say, very well without you . . . And you’ll have lunch to be getting on with, naturally.’ Lunch, too, now fell to Mrs Touchet. ‘Hoo, Clara! Look at these! These’d be your dad’s! Ainsworth, Ainsworth, Ainsworth, Ainsworth, Ainsworth.’ This much, at least, the poor woman could read. Her face shone with pride. Eliza despised the part of herself that felt duty-bound to make a correction:

‘But those are periodicals, Sarah, not novels. They will need to go over here with the Bentley’s and the Fraser’s . . . That’s Ainsworth’s Magazine – it had many contributors. But William began it and was the Conductor for some years. That is, the man who chooses the pieces and edits them. Now in fact he edits Bentley’s, though for how much long—’

‘Conductor! That’s a manager, Clara. Nothing higher than Conductor!’ Kneeling together, they seemed two daughters, side by side. ‘Ooh, and look at him there!’ Little Clara had picked up the July ’34 issue of Fraser’s magazine, issue number fifty, which promptly fell open to a handsome portrait of William as a young dandy. ‘And all this writ underneath! Look!’ Mother and daughter looked at it. Nothing followed, or could be expected to follow. Mrs Touchet sighed, stepped forward, and read the piece of puffery aloud to the both of them. Sarah listened intently and, when it was finished, clapped her hands in satisfaction.

‘Ha! And he should have been well flattered by all that, naturally!’ – said with great condescension, as if she’d written it herself. ‘Clever girl you are, Clara Rose, to find your daddy’s picture like that – and so handsome as he was in them days, and all them nice things said about him! That’s luck, eh?’

But Mrs Touchet did not doubt they could find something similar in many of the magazines that lay before them. No one had ever accused William of being backward about putting himself forward.

‘Imagine there’s that many words writ about you and byyou so that the floor caves in under the weight of it! Ha! Ha! Ha!’

‘Sarah, may I ask something of you?’

‘Naturally, you can’ – stubby little fingers folded placidly in her lap, like the Queen herself – ‘speak your mind.’

‘Well, there was a package this morning—’

‘So there was.’

‘You didn’t see who left it, by any chance?’

‘It was on the doorstep. I pick it up and give it him, as anybody would, naturally.’ Somewhere Sarah had got the idea that ‘naturally’ was the mark of a distinguished speaker.

‘Well, I must ask, Sarah, that you alert me to the arrival of anything in the post – letters or books or packages that may come to the house – before you deliver them to William.’

‘And it was him what asked this, was it?’

Eliza blushed, more in fury than embarrassment.

Sarah pressed her advantage: ‘Cos I wouldn’t imagine a housekeeper and the lady of the house would be having secrets between them two only that the gentleman did not know himself’ – declared with great solemnity and with only one ‘h’ successfully sounded, at the beginning of ‘only’ – ‘that don’t seem right nor natural. And as I recall, when we first moved establishments, it was you what suggested that the big painting of him when he was young – it was you said that it mustn’t be hung again, because he wouldn’t like it no more, being old, you said – and then first time he walks in here he cries “Where’s my old Maclise!” – meaning his portrait, because it was a fellow called Maclise what painted it – and naturally he weren’t pleased, as he likes that picture of himself particularly as it turns out, so naturally I’d be asking him his own views on the post, I think, Mrs Touchet, if you don’t mind.’

‘Naturally.’

On her way out, Eliza passed under the lively eye of the old portrait by Maclise. Lively eye, lively sideburns, lively curls – none of it inaccurate at the moment of composition. Pretty like a woman, florid-cheeked like a baby. This, too, had been William.