The time we reached the mansion again, the clock struck at six o'clock. The police car stopped with a slight squeal when it met its grand entry into the gateway. The doors opened and we descended, finally putting our feet on the ground again. The doors flung shut and we walked into the still wide-opened front door where there were the police and forensics working on. We stepped into the house and found ourselves into a shock-stricken ambience. Each and every face were uptight and anxious-looking and we even noticed some unfamiliar figures standing with wretchedness. 

One of them was a middle-aged and moustached man, wearing a bulky grey-dyed woollen coat, standing with fidgetting feet. The next one was a worried-looking woman, dressed in a cream-coloured dress with a narrow-brimmed circular-shaped hat along with two necklaces- the first one was a shiny-looking golden chain and the second was an emerald-encrusted loosely one. She was holding a small black-coloured handbag, looking at all four sides with hysteria. The third one was a recognising figure that I squinted to see who it was but his face was turned away. He later turned when he heard our footsteps. It was then that I realised that it was Chief Inspector Axel Wyatt. He was a highly famous personality. He gained his fame by his great-numbered solved crimes. He was awarded for the Officer of the Year and returned the best crime figures in the job. 

He glanced at us and walked towards us. "I've been called for to help you in the case," he said, in his usual heavy voice, doing a handshake with us. When he shook his hand together with Blake and Mort, his eyebrows pulled together forming a frown, asking, "Aren't you Detective Blake and Mort?" 

"Yes, it's us," Blake said.

"Ah! Read about you and your famously solved crimes." he paused for a minute or two then recommenced, "Pleased to meet you both."

"Well, we are here to see if we can solve the case from the victim's daughter," Mort said.

"Oh! I see." Inspector Axel said, "Well, go on." He moved away to let them pass.

Blake went to the dining room and a morose-looking Claire could be spotted at the bottom-most chair of the large-length table. Claire turned his face and stared at Blake and Mort.

"Who are you? You don't seem to be the police?" Claire said, directly and fluently.

"I may not be the police," said Blake, "But maybe as well as the police. I'm Blake Edward." He said it superficially.

"Blake Edward, the one who solved the recent case I've watched in the news." she murmured, "Oh! Please solve this murder and fetch me the murderer. Bring my father and mother justice."

"I can assure you. Things get worse once and best twice with me if I may have the authority to solve the murder."

"Yes! Yes! I trust you to bring the truth. I'm leaving the responsibility on you. Just bring justice to my parents that's all I want." Claire said.

"Don't worry. As the case is confirmed it is affirmed." Blake said, "I'll better go and see the crime scene." 

Blake got out of the dining room and trudged upstairs along with Mort, Kingsley and me. I and Kingsley guided them to the crime scene situated at the office of Mr Eric Daryl. There was Mr Eric Daryl with his slitted throat, sitting on his red-coloured armchair at his typewriter desk along with a cracked circular-shaped glasses. Blake passed through the barricaded area and got into the field. He approached the corpse and scrutinised upon the typewriter with a sheet of paper on it, written in typewriter-style fonts itself:

Blake moved off his eyes from the sheet of paper and looked at the large-edged telephone directory where it was opened on page 792 along with a black-coloured telephone along with bloodstained dials. There were small-looking letters written on the pages which looked as thin dark lines from far. The blood-stained dials included the numbers: 0195

He then started to walk around the area and stood in front of a cram-full lot of jam-packed collection of horizontally-placed different-coloured book spines kept on a large-length colossally towering wooden bookshelf at the back of the red-coloured armchair of Mr Eric Daryl. He then walked to the door and analysed the coat on the coat rack at the right side of the door. He slid his hand in the coat-pocket and rummaged for some possible thing that may help but in vain. He then got out of the cordoned area and exclaimed, "All neat and clean. Spick and span."

"So, murder or suicide?" asked a curious me. 

"Murder. I may suggest." Blake said, unhesitatingly, "A heinous murder."