This one is about the last (unfinished) Dickens novel (one I had--embarrassed to admit--never heard of) (if you haven't either, it's called The Mystery of Edwin Drood) (do you feel smart now?). The novel's premise is certainly interesting: Charles Dickens has died while writing one of the middle chapters of his latest serial novel, and his American publishers are desperate to find out whether he may have written more--but just not sent it. Apparently, publishing in Boston in the mid-1800s was a cutthroat business, and a young boy is killed trying to deliver some of those middle chapters to his publisher. And not just killed but doped up with opium, tortured a bit, and chased down by a creepy dude with a scary little gold statue on the end of his walking stick.
That's the first chapter, really, and now that I write all that, it does sound pretty exciting. It's not the story that was at fault. It was the execution of it. I never really got sucked in, never really cared about the characters. It was interesting to read about Charles Dickens's last few years (flashbacks are so handy, aren't they?) and to read about the dangers of publishing. But that was all it was. Just interesting. Not riveting like The Dante Club. Just--eh. Boring. Don't waste your time and dollars on it.