It's the autumn of 1541 and "crookback lawyer" Matthew Shardlake has been dispatched to York to help sort out paperwork pertaining to the upcoming visit of the monstrous Henry VIII. He's also charged with keeping an eye on a political prisoner being held there, to ensure he arrives in the state torture chambers in the Tower of London in rude health. Cue a mystery plot with more twists than Chubby Checker eating a bag of pretzels, as various no-good courtiers, conspirators and on-the-make officials weave webs of murder and deceit. I understand that part of the appeal of genre fiction is its formulaic nature, but for a dedicated lit-ficcer like me it's somewhat amusing watching the various attempts on Shardlake's life play out as if according to a schedule — mobbed by glaziers one day, swung-at by a giant roasting spit a few days later, narrowly escaping being thrown by a sabotaged horse not long after that, etc etc. Sansom, a diligent lawyer himself before turning to fiction, plans his hero's days down to the minute as he and his Watson, lusty young Jack Barak, scurry round the city like rats in some mad scientist's maze.

It is satisfying, though, and not just intellectually. Sansom puts you right there in the filth of Tudor England with its overflowing latrines, incurable diseases and putrid airs. And looming over everything is the gross, tyrannical figure of the king (or the "Mouldwarp" as a subversive prophecy, important to the plot, calls him), one leg pustulent and reeking, a hobbling embodiment of the corruption of the state. Henry's gradual progress north from London, with its thousands of attendants and camp-followers, is likened to a great beast devouring all in its path, and the tyrant himself is a truly disturbing monster, radiating cruelty and malice. It's no wonder people risked the rack to plot against him.