Louis Bayard could have fallen flat on his face with this, tripped up by the chains of a weighty literary classic. He makes a brave attempt to strike out on his own by marrying an external crime mystery with an internal story of a lost soul trying to find himself.
The crime part worked much better. The crime deepened and became more disturbing as the reader discovered more in time with the narrator. The subject matter was disturbing but rang true.
The lost soul (Timothy) that was the ultimate outcome of the Dickens original felt contrived, like the author was trying to glue on some literary credibility. That Timothy feels that way is credible, but the way it is portrayed in the book is not. He begins by writing letters in pen and ink to his dead father. Soon he is writing these letters in places and in the midst of dramatic situations where he has no pen, ink, light or time. He is in life threatening situations but sees them as an excuse to sit down and muse about the same old father-son complexity.
And the most annoying part was the language. The author clearly did a lot of research to attempt the feel of 1860s London (although I did spot a couple of anachronisms) but why is that sense of being there constantly thrown away by the choice of modern American idiom and American words. Getting the idiom right can't be easy, but the choice of American words over English (for example sidewalk, Fall, wrench rather than pavement, Autumn, spanner) must surely be deliberate. My guess is this is the decision of the editor who thought that the US market, where this book was first published, was too dimwitted to understand or look up such words as 'pavement'. If I was an American I would be insulted by this obvious dumbing down.
Yet despite these annoyances I managed to read to the end and feel my time was well spent.