It’s perhaps emblematic of the problems with The Fraud that I had so much trouble figuring out how to describe it to you. The Fraud of the title most obviously refers to the real-life court case inspiring the narrative, in which a man arrives in London claiming to be the long-lost Sir Roger Tichborne and demanding his inheritance. To most people, the claimant is a transparent fraud, whose story doesn’t hold up to the smallest amount of scrutiny. However, he becomes a cause celebre among the lower and working classes, who rally to his defense, raise funds for his effort, and pack the courthouse to cheer him on.
More metaphorically, the “fraud” of the title could be applied to William Harrison Ainsworth, a once-popular but always mediocre novelist living out his life in a series of increasingly smaller homes as he spends down his fortune and tries to ignore his own obscurity. Ainsworth, a real person, is well out of print, but you will be familiar with several of his literary friends and frequent dinner guests: men like William Thackeray and Charles Dickens.
However, The Fraud is not about either the phony Sir Roger or the talentless William Ainsworth. It is instead about two more marginal figures. The first is Eliza Touchet, the widow of William’s cousin who comes to stay with him as a sort of housekeeper and occasional lover. Eliza is a favorite of William’s fellow writers, though she is ambivalent about them, as indeed she seems to be ambivalent about all men, with the exception of Andrew Bogle.
Bogle is the most credible witness supporting the false Sir Roger. A former enslaved person and page for the Tichborne family in both Jamaica and England, he is in a position to say that he recognizes the claimant as the real Sir Roger. Eliza, who along with the pretty, young, and foolish Mrs. Ainsworth has become a dedicated court-watcher, doesn’t believe Bogle’s story but somehow still believes in him. His bearing and dignity make him easy to trust, and there is seemingly no motive for him to lie.
The premise, the structure, and even the prose are quite Dickensian, which caused me to anticipate that the story would follow suit and be full of coincidences and surprising revelations. This was a faulty assumption. Indeed, it is sort of impossible to understand what, if anything, is the point of all this. The set-up is so convoluted and yet, ultimately, the book is light on incident and lighter on meaning. Why does Bogle support the transparently fraudulent Sir Roger? No idea. What draws Eliza to Bogle? Couldn’t tell you.
What drew Zadie Smith to this story in the first place? It seems impossible to say.