Tombland

Lady Elizabeth, Shardlake's royal patron and the future queen, sends him to Norwich to investigate a delicate matter: A distant relative named Edith Boleyn has been murdered in a very obscene fashion and her husband is expected to hang for the crime. "The family name, the foul details of the crime - the pamphleteers will have the time of their lives," predicts a member of the court. Shardlake's orders are to ensure that justice is done. And if it isn't, he has Elizabeth's royal pardon in his pocket. Shardlake participates in a tense murder trial and visits a hellish prison where the condemned await execution - by hanging if they're lucky, by bloodier methods if they're not. And then he lingers in the countryside, struck by the rumbling unrest between displaced peasants and greedy landowners grabbing tracts of common land. Šansom describes 16th-century events in the crisply realistic style of someone watching them transpire right outside his window. He takes a good bit of his plot from the historical peasants' rebellion led by Robert Kett, who appears here as a roguishly romantic hero. The descriptions of Kett's great camp on Mousehold Heath are so vivid you can almost smell the sheep being roasted to feed the thousands of farmers and laborers who make up the rebel army. The historical detail is impressive, but what we remember best are the violent scenes of rioting farmers tearing down the loathed enclosures and the ugly glimpses of women and children being turned out of their homes. Don't believe those tapestries of pretty lords and ladies happily hunting unicorns: The Middle Ages were murder. An autumnal air of melancholy seems to hang over Charles Todd's elegant police procedurals featuring Inspector Ian Rutledge of Scotland Yard. As THE BLACK ASCOT (Morrow, $26.99) begins, Edward VII has just died and the fashionable socialites attending the 1910 Ascot races are shrouded in mourning. Alan Barrington uses the occasion to arrange a fatal motorcar accident for the man who drove his best friend to commit suicide, or so he believes. Barrington then disappears for nearly 10 years. When he finally resurfaces, Rutledge is sent to discreetly track him down. This reflective series always seems eager to get Todd's sensitive detective out of London and into the English countryside, where the reverberations of World War I are still being felt. In Merwyn, "a gray, bleak village" of lost souls, he finds a wife who thought she was a war widow and her veteran husband, who feels he might as well be dead. And in Hampshire, Rutledge visits a clinic where, staring at shellshocked victims, he sees his own traumatized face. By now I should know better than to continue reading a novel that opens with a telephone call in the middle of the night. It's usually a tipoff that the dialogue is going to be dreary. ("Hello.... Who is this? ... Hello. Hello.... Who is this?") Fiona Barton has written better books than the suspect (Berkley, $26), and I expect to read more of them in the future. But this one recycles familiar themes and old plot points. Kate Waters, a British journalist with amazing survival skills in a weakened industry, takes an assignment involving two teenage girls who have gone missing in Thailand. Since her own son, Jake, is roaming the world and rarely calls home, this case is bound to be a heartbreaker for her and a strain for any reader who doesn't want to plow through another weepy story about suffering mothers and their callous children. But it's my own fault. After all, I caught that middle-of-the-night phone call and I didn't hang up. Here's one for the Shooting Yourself in the Foot Department: THE MURDER PIT (Mira, paper, $15.99), a Victorian potboiler by Mick Finlay, who had the very good idea of spoofing Sherlock Holmes by creating a private investigator who is his exact opposite. Unlike that famed cerebral sleuth, William Arrowood is the detective of last resort, relying on instinct, impulse and sudden brainstorms to resolve distasteful cases for unsavory clients. Norman Barnett, Arrowood's faithful assistant and the narrator of this story, doesn't waste his breath describing bucolic country scenes. And if he and Arrowood should leave London, they're more likely to visit a working farm "with its attack dogs, its slaughter shed, its mountains of stinking dung." Arrowood shows real skill in dealing with the case of Birdie Barclay, who hasn't been heard from since she left home to marry a pig farmer. But Finlay has no sense of proportion. It's not enough that his hero is rude, crude and lacking in social skills. His personal hygiene is so appalling he's unable to eat or drink without soiling himself, so he pretty much smells like a barnyard. Here, have a napkin! MARILYN STASIO has covered crime fiction for the Book Review since 1988. Her column appears twice a month.

Set in 1549 England, Sansom's outstanding seventh novel featuring lawyer Matthew Shardlake (after 2015's Lamentation) finds Shardlake working for Thomas Parry, the comptroller in charge of the household finances for the future Elizabeth I. Parry summons Shardlake to undertake a highly sensitive investigation. A woman has shown up at Lady Elizabeth's Norfolk residence, claiming to be Edith Boleyn, the widow of John, a distant relative of Anne Boleyn, Elizabeth's mother. Edith said she had just been dispossessed of her property, but Parry, who grew increasingly suspicious of her bona fides, turned her away. Eleven days later, a shepherd found the woman's naked corpse in a stream, her head bashed in. The shepherd was employed by a landowner engaged in a bitter territory dispute with the very much alive John Boleyn. John's muddy shoes matched footprints near the grim discovery, and a hammer with traces of blood and hair was found in his stables. Elizabeth herself requests that Shardlake look into the crime. Shardlake's search for the truth behind the murder coincides with the massive peasant uprising known as Kett's Rebellion. Non-mystery readers interested in Tudor England will be equally enthralled. Agent: Jennifer Weltz, Jean V. Naggar Literary. (Jan.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

The Lady Elizabeth sat behind a wide desk covered with books and papers. Unlike her brother the King or her elder sister Mary, as his heir, Elizabeth had no canopy of state to sit under. She was dressed in black, a French hood on her head from which her long, auburn hair fell to her shoulders, a token of virginity. I wondered if she wore black still for Catherine Parr, or whether, like the relative austerity of the Hatfield furnishings, it was more a sign of her loyalty to Protestant sobriety. Her face, a long oval like her mother's but with the igh- bridged nose and small mouth of her father, made her remarkable, if not beautiful. The square front of her dress showed the full breasts of a girl almost grown, but otherwise she was thin and pale, with dark rings under her brown eyes. She was studying a document as I entered, her long fingers playing nervously with a quill. Blanche announced, 'Serjeant Shardlake, my Lady,' and I bowed deeply as she moved to take a position beside Elizabeth. Blanche kept her eyes on me; I had no doubt everything we said would be reported back to Parry. Lady Elizabeth studied me a moment, then said in her clear voice, 'Serjeant Shardlake, it is many months since I have seen you.' A shadow crossed her face. 'Not since you called to give me your condo­lences after the Queen Dowager died.' 'Yes. A sad day.' 'It was.' She put down the quill, and said quietly, 'I know you served that sweet lady well. And I loved her. Truly, despite what some have said.' She took a deep breath. 'I remember when I first met you, four years ago was it not? You were with the Queen Dowager, come to discuss a case.' 'That is right, my Lady.' She smiled. 'I recall that I asked you about justice, and you said that all deserved it, even the worst of people.' 'You remember well.' She gave a pleased nod of acknowledgement. Always she liked to show off her memory, her intelligence. She continued, 'How are you faring with turning the money my father left me into land?' 'Matters go quicker now your sister has chosen the land she wants.' 'Oh yes, Mary must always come first. Though we will see how she fares when the Prayer Book comes in. She will have to get rid of all her popish chaplains.' Elizabeth smiled grimly, then waved the matter aside and sat back in her chair. 'Justice, Serjeant Shardlake, I know you have always believed in it, and have sometimes sought it in dark corners. Perusing documents about my lands must seem dull by comparison.' 'I grow older, my Lady, and am content with quieter work. Most of the time,' I added. 'I would have you see justice done now, to my relative and to his poor dead wife. Master Parry will have told you the horrible details.' 'He has. And that you would have me go to Norfolk to' - I chose my words arefully - 'examine the details, satisfy myself that justice is done to Master John Boleyn.' 'Yes. Blanche and Master Parry should never have sent that poor woman away.' She glanced at Blanche, and I was surprised to see that formidable lady colour. Elizabeth's tone softened. 'Oh, I know they only seek to protect me, they fear scandal and the lies told about me round the Protector's court. But I will have this matter properly inves­tigated. Parry will have told you of his man, Lawyer Copuldyke.' 'His eyes and ears in that part of the world, I believe.' 'Parry suggested I employ him to deal with this matter. Well, I hold no great opinion of Copuldyke. A uffed‑ up fool. I think you will do better.' 'Thank you for your confidence in me, my Lady.' 'Master Parry has told you to go to Norfolk as soon as possible.' 'He has.' 'And would be glad, I think, if you came back with nothing.' Her voice hardened. 'But if you do find something, Serjeant Shardlake, which may affect the outcome of this matter, you are commanded to inform the courts in Norwich. And to tell me.' Elizabeth looked at Mistress Blanche again. 'I will tell Master Parry I am to see all correspondence.'   'I shall do all I can.' I hesitated, then added, 'Of course, Master Boleyn may be guilty.' 'Then justice must be done,' she said. 'If it can be proved. But if Master Boleyn be found guilty, and you find evidence that he did not kill his poor wife, I will make application to my brother for a pardon. Before you leave I will give you a copy under my seal, which you are to give to the judges should the need arise.' She looked firmly at Blanche, then continued, 'I understand you are to take Lawyer Copuldyke's assistant with you. Rough though he is, I hear he is capable. Also that long lad you came with. I saw him arrive with you from my window. He looked to be trustworthy enough.' 'I trust Master Overton entirely.' I thought, This fractured royal family, how they plan, and calculate, and watch from windows. 'Good.' Elizabeth closed her eyes a moment, and I sensed how tired she was, and weary. She continued, in a sombre tone, 'Master Parry is to give you a copy of all the documents in the case.' 'Master Overton is copying them now. I will do my best to ensure justice is one - you may be sure of that.' Elizabeth nodded. She sat thoughtfully a moment, then said, with a sad smile, 'You have never married, have you, Serjeant Shardlake?' 'No, my Lady.' 'Why is that?' she asked, with genuine curiosity. I hesitated. 'I have a ertain - isability - in the marriage market.' 'Oh tush,' she said, waving a hand. 'I have known many hunch­backs who have married, and far orse- ooking than you.' I caught my breath. Nobody else would have dared address the matter with such brutal frankness. Mistress Blanche gave a warning cough, but Elizabeth waved it away, those brown eyes on mine. I laughed uneasily. 'I have perhaps been too demanding where mat­ters of the heart are concerned. More than once I have admired women who ere - above my station.' I regretted saying that immediately, for Catherine Parr had been one of them. I wondered if Elizabeth had guessed, but her look was hard to read. I added lamely, 'And I am an old whitehead now, I think it too late for me.' I had expected her to contradict me again, but instead she nodded, her expression hardening. She said, 'I have decided that I shall never marry.' 'My Lady -' Mistress Blanche began.  Again Elizabeth waved her away imperiously. 'I am telling every­one, so my intentions may be known.' I ventured, 'But if you should change your ind -' 'Never.' Elizabeth's voice remained calm, but her tone was intense now. 'I want all to know, so there will be no more plots to take me to the altar for the political gain of some man.' She continued looking at me. 'I know what marriage can mean, for women of royal station. I saw what happened to Catherine Parr. How the papists plotted to blacken her good name with my father, and have him do away with her. As you well know. And then, her marriage to Thomas Seymour.' She coloured, the blood rising into her pale face. 'He married her for her position, and behaved without honour, so that she cursed him on her deathbed.' 'My Lady!' Blanche's voice was insistent now, but still Elizabeth ignored her. She said, 'First there is love, then marriage, then betrayal, then death. That is what happened to Catherine Parr.' She added quietly, 'And one before her.' I lowered my eyes. She meant her mother. Elizabeth should not be talking to me like this. As though reading my thoughts, she smiled sadly. 'I know I can trust your confidence, Serjeant Shardlake. I have known that since I first met you, and I have come to learn how rare a quality that is. And I know that you will nsure - this ime - that a Boleyn is given justice, and the murderer of that poor woman who came to me seeking succour, is punished. Whoever it may be.' Excerpted from Tombland by C. J. Sansom All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.