Excerpt from The Fraud by Zadie Smith, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

'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.

Excerpted from The Fraud by Zadie Smith. Copyright © 2023 by Zadie Smith. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.