The Hordern Mystery

In a gas-lit Sydney where the harbour fog swallows entire streets, the Hordern family’s palatial department store becomes a labyrinth of velvet drapes, mahogany drawers, and whispered curses. When the reclusive patriarch, Silas Hordern, vanishes during a midnight inventory, his absence is not a void but a doorway: every mirrored counter reflects a different suspect, every ledger column bleeds motive. Godfrey Cass’s Inspector Cathcart—equal parts bloodhound and fallen angel—arrives carrying a valise of morphine and a memory of war trenches that twitch behind his eyelids. Floris St George’s Vivienne Hordern glides through aisles of kid gloves like a swan trailing scandal; her mourning veil is a magician’s cloth beneath which entire fortunes disappear. Flo Little’s street-urchin switchboard operator, Topsy, trades gossip for cigarette cards and hears the dead speak through crackling wires, while Thomas Sinclair’s cleric-turned-accountant unravels a trail of ecclesiastical red ink that leads from the choir loft to the morgue. The plot pirouettes on a single question: did Silas orchestrate his own extinction to escape the abyss of bankruptcy, or was he devoured by the store itself—its pneumatic tubes, its gilded birdcages, its basement mortuary where mannequins are stitched from human skin? Each revelation is a shattered prism; the closer Cathcart edges toward truth, the more the reflection fragments into a kaleidoscope of blackmail letters, counterfeit rubies, and lullabies sung by a child who drowned decades earlier. The final reel detonates inside the grand dome during a moonlit fashion parade: silk gowns blaze like comets, a brass band collapses into dissonance, and the missing patriarch reappears—not as corpse or ghost, but as the scarred proprietor of a new underworld bazaar where souls are bartered between floorboards. The curtain falls on a single close-up: Vivienne’s iris, dilated, holding the whole city like a drop of poisoned mercury.