Case Of The Missing Manuscript - Sleep Story

Please join me while I read a custom story named "The Case of the Missing Manuscript at Merriweather Manor". This is a 27 minute story, accompanied by an additional 5 minutes of ambient music.

The story: At Merriweather Manor a hidden gem goes missing. There are only 3 people in the house and none of them are to blame. Unravel the mystery of a missing manuscript but maybe, that's not all that's missing.

Transcript

Welcome to Restful Journeys. In this track I will be reading a short story called The Case of the Missing Manuscript at Merriweather Manor. Please find a comfortable place to sit or lie down and relax. Take a few moments to clear your mind and allow yourself to listen to these words. Let's begin The Case of the Missing Manuscript at Merriweather Manor. The world outside has been muffled by a thick autumn fog, The kind that stills the edges from things and makes every shadow a mystery. Tonight we find ourselves far from the hustle, Tucked away in the deep rolling hills of the English countryside in a place called Merriweather Manor. Merriweather Manor is a house of heavy stone and even heavier secrets. Built in a late Victoria era, It possesses that peculiar air of faded grandeur. The corridors are long, Lined with portraits whose eyes seem to follow the soft, Shifting light of the moon. The air inside smells of old leather, Wood polish, And the faint comforting scent of piped tobacco. It is a house where time moves slowly, Deliberately, And yet, Things often go missing. The storm outside provides us shush and tap, A perfect accompaniment to the silence we seek tonight. Let your muscles loosen, Let the soft velvet of the night wrap around you. There is no urgency here, Only the steady rhythm of the rain. Our small cast of characters is gathered in Manor's library, A room paneled in dark oak, With shelves that climb almost to the ceiling. They are assembled for a most peculiar occasion, The imminent publication of a long-lost literary treasure. The owner of the manor is Lady Beatrice Merriweather, A woman of seventy-two, Known for her remarkably sharp wit and her even sharper glasses. She is petite, But her presence fills the room. Her companions tonight are Mr. Alastair Finch, The nervous young literary agent who keeps running a hand over his slicked-back hair, And Mrs. Penelope Croft, A pale, Quiet academic who has spent the last five years of her life painstakingly authenticating the very object everyone is waiting for. That object is a manuscript, Not just any manuscript, But the final unpublished play by the celebrated, Yet notoriously secretive, Victorian dramatist, Elias Thorne. Lady Beatrice's late husband, It seems, Has been Thorne's only confidant, And this play, The final piece of genius, Was to be revealed to the world tomorrow. Now, Observe the quiet tableau. It is a little past ten o'clock. A tray with a decanter of sherry and three polished glasses sits on a low mahogany table, Untouched. Lady Beatrice sits in her favorite wingback chair, The firelight catching the ruby ring on her finger. She is talking, Her voice a low, Steady murmur, About the meticulous care with which the manuscript has been kept. She explains to Mr. Finch that it has been stored, For safety, In a locked, Steel-lined box, Which is itself kept in the manor's small walk-in safe behind a false bookcase in the library, A double layer of security. Nothing could be safer, She insists, With a small dry cough. Mr. Finch smiles weakly, Tapping his fountain pen against his palm. Miss Croft merely nods, Her eyes distant, Lost perhaps in the beautiful faded script she knows so well. Everything is in its place, The atmosphere is one of anticipation, Not alarm. The rain continues its gentle percussion. Shh, Shh, Shh. Lady Beatrice decides it's time for one final preparatory look, A moment of reverence unveiling. She rises, Takes a small heavy brass key, The key to the steel-lined box from the chatelaine on her waist, And walks slowly toward the bookshelf. Mr. Finch and Miss Croft watch her movements, The bookcase swings inward with a faint dry creak. The large, Heavy door of the safe is revealed. Lady Beatrice rotates the a series of soft mechanical clicks, Feeling the sudden silence. Click, Click, Click, Click, Stop. The safe door swings open, She reaches inside, Pulling out the steel-lined box. It is old, Dark green, And utilitarian. She sets it on the mahogany table, Her hand trembles slightly as she inserts the brass key into the lock. She turns it, A soft metallic snick. The lid is lifted, And now a moment of stillness, Absolute and profound. Inside the box, There is nothing, Absolutely nothing. No heavy cream-colored parchment tied with a silk ribbon, No faded ink. The box is lined with a smooth, Dark velvet, Now empty. Lady Beatrice does not exclaim, She merely stares, Her face an unreadable mask of shock. She closes the box gently, Deliberately, As if handling something fragile. Then she looks up, Her eyes hard and cold. The manuscript, She says, Her voice low and utterly devoid of color, Is gone. Mr. Finch jumps to his feet, Knocking his chair slightly. Gone, But how? The safe, The box. Miss Croft remains seated, But her pale hands are pressed against her mouth, Her eyes dart nervously around the room, From the fire to the bookshelf and then back to the empty box. The crime is a small one, A quiet one, Befitting the house. A single object removed, Yet the world has shifted on its axis. Lady Beatrice is a woman of action, She immediately dismisses the idea of calling the police. Not yet, She says, The less fuss the better. No one must know, Not until we understand how. She turns to her two guests. This is the classic equation, Isn't it? A small, Enclosed space, A missing object of immense value, And a very limited pool of suspects. The box, She asks Mr. Finch. When was the last time any of you saw the manuscript inside the box? Mr. Finch, Stammering now, Says he only saw it yesterday afternoon. He helped Lady Beatrice place it inside. She locked the box, And he watched her put it into the safe and locked the safe door. Miss Croft confirms this. She was present to verify the final page count. She distinctly remembers the feel of the parchment, The scent of the age-old ink, Before it was sealed away. And who, Lady Beatrice asks, Has access to the safe combination and the key to the inner box? Lady Beatrice holds up the brass key. This key, She says, Is never out of my possession. It is always on my chanteline, Which is always with me or next to my bed. She then addresses the combination. The safe combination, She explains, Is one I made up for thirty years ago. It is known only to myself and to my local butler, Henson. Henson, A man whose movements are as silent as a cat's, Has been with the family for forty years. Unimpeachable, You would think, But in a locked room mystery, Everyone carries a question mark. The butler is summoned. He arrives quietly, Standing stiffly in the doorway. He confirms he does know the combination. He last entered the safe two weeks ago to retrieve a valuable piece of silver. He has not gone near the safe or the box since. The plot thickens, As all good plots must. We have a locked safe, A locked box, And two keys. The combination, Known to two people, And the physical key, Known to one. Yet, The contents are gone, Poof, Vanished into the heavy, Humid air of Merriweather Manor. Lady Beatrice walks slowly around the library, Inspecting the security. She goes to the large bay window. It is old, Heavy, And latched from the inside with an iron clasp. She tests it. It is secure. The other entrance is the main door, Leading out into the hall. It is locked from the inside. No entry, No exit, She states flatly. The room has not been left unattended all evening. Mr. Finch and Miss Croft have been with me since seven o'clock. Henson has been in and out of the room bringing the sherry, But no longer than a minute at a time. The silence that follows is heavy, Punctuated only by the soft flicker of the fire and the insistent, Soothing whisper of the rain. Now, Let us consider the vital question. Motive. Why steal a manuscript that would be impossible to sell? Any dealer would instantly recognize its origin and authenticity, And the theft would be known worldwide by morning. Lady Beatrice looks at Mr. Finch. Mr. Finch, You stood to gain immensely from the publication, A percentage of the profit, A considerable sum, But you cannot sell it now. Mr. Finch is frantic. I would lose everything, My reputation. I swear on my mother's grave, Lady Beatrice. I am innocent. I wanted it published more than life itself. Lady Beatrice then turns her gaze to Miss Croft, The pale academic who has loved this manuscript almost as if it were her own child. Miss Croft, Lady Beatrice's voice is soft now, But piercing. Perhaps you felt the world was not worthy of Thorn's final work. Perhaps you wanted to keep it just for yourself, The ultimate scholarly possession. Miss Croft shakes her head, Her face distressed. No, Never. I was to write the introduction, The crowning achievement of my career. I have given everything to this project. And then there is the butler, Henson. He stands patiently, His hands clasped behind his back. He had access to the combination, But what would he gain? An old man, Set for life, With no particular interest in Victorian theater. It seems highly improbable. Lady Beatrice dismisses him with a curt nod, Sending him back to his duties. She knows, However, That the solution must lie in these details. The key, The combination, The locked room, And the three people who were here in the critical window of time, From yesterday evening to this morning. Let your mind drift. Let the impossibilities of this theft carry you. A locked box within a locked safe, Within a locked room. Impossible, Yet it has happened. The great detective, Should there be one, Would call this a puzzle of arrangement. Lady Beatrice walks to the mahogany table where the empty box still sits. She leans over it, Her eyes closed for a brief second. When she straightens up, A small, Puzzled frown creases her brow. She sniffs the air around the table. Do you smell that? She asks. Mr. Finch sniffs, Then shakes his head. I only smell old paper, Lady Beatrice, And maybe a bit of the sherry. Miss Croft sniffs hesitantly. I think I detect something very faint, A kind of floral scent. Jasmine, Lady Beatrice murmurs. The scent of strong, Cheap jasmine perfume. Not the scent of a lady of quality, I assure you. I banned jasmine from this house decades ago. It reminds me of the woman we had back in 52, Who always stole the sugar lumps. A scent, An anomaly, A single misplaced detail that does not belong in the musty, Polished air of the library. It suggests a fourth party, An outsider. But how did they enter, And where did they go? Lady Beatrice goes back to the safe. She runs her hand along the edge of the large metal door. She tries the handle. It's solid. She checks the false bookcase. It is heavy and secure. She goes back to the steel-lined box. She examines the lock on the box itself. It is a simple, Robust lock, Untampered with. There are no scratches, No signs of forced entry. The box was opened with the key. Her key. She is certain she had the key with her all evening. But wait, She remembers something. A small detail from earlier in the evening. Around eight o'clock, While the three of them were discussing Thorne's dramatic structure, Lady Beatrice spilled a few drops of sherry onto her dress. A very small blotch. She had retired for five minutes to the small cloakroom, Just off the hall, To dab at the stain. She had unhooked the chantelaine with its dangling key and placed it on the small marble shelf while she worked the stain with a napkin. The key, She whispers, Her eyes wide. For five minutes, The key was left alone in the cloakroom. Anyone could have slipped in and borrowed it, Make a quick clay impression, And returned it. Five minutes is all it takes. But if someone had made a copy of the key, They still needed the combination to the outer safe. That combination was known only to her and to Henson, The faithful butler. We return to Mr. Finch, The anxious literary agent. Did he, Perhaps, Have an opportunity to observe Lady Beatrice opening the safe yesterday? Did he possess the necessary quickness and memory to memorize the turning sequence? Perhaps, He is a man who deals in numbers, In contracts and figures. And Miss Croft, The quiet academic, Did she, With her meticulous scholarly mind, Simply deduce the combination? Often, Personal combinations are based on an easily remembered date, A birthday, An anniversary. Could she have found a detail of Lady Beatrice's life, A key date that would unlock the safe? The room is silent again. The fire is slowly turning to ash, A soft, Sinking sound. The rain continues outside, Its gentle rhythm, Shh, Shh, Shh. Lady Beatrice's eyes narrow. The scent of jasmine. She had associated it with a woman, A servant, And who works alongside the servants? Henson, The loyal butler who knows the combination. She calls him back into the room, His face is impassive, A blank canvas of service. Henson, She says, Her voice low and steady. Do you know anyone who uses strong jasmine perfume? Henson hesitates for a moment, A tiny, Almost imperceptible flicker in his calm facade. Yes, Lady Beatrice, He says quietly. My granddaughter, Maud, She often comes to wait for me after her shift at the village bakery. She waits in the small pantry so as not to disturb the main house. She favors that particular scent. Ah, The perfect confluence of events, A third party known to a key player, And an opportunity. Lady Beatrice leans forward, Her hands gripping the arms of the chair. The combination, Henson, She states, Nod asks. Did you ever, In a moment of pride, Or perhaps forgetfulness, Write it down? Perhaps on a scrap of paper that your granddaughter might have discovered? Henson's gaze drops to the floor. Aye, I may have, Madam. Years ago, I wrote it on the back of an old laundry receipt, Just so I wouldn't forget it in my advanced years. It is in my small cupboard in the pantry. I assumed it was secure. The combination, Known only to two, Was in fact known to three, Or perhaps even four if the granddaughter showed it to an accomplice. The safe was no longer secure. Here is the probable sequence, The mechanism of the crime. The combination, The butler's granddaughter or a friend, Found the laundry paper with the combination. The key, The thief, Knowing they could access the safe, Needed the key to the inner box. They waited for the key's moment of vulnerability. When Lady Beatrice left it on the marble shelf in the cloakroom, They took it, Made a fast impression in soft wax or clay, And returned it within minutes. The Theft Last night, While the house slept in and the storm began, The thief entered the library. They opened the safe with the memorized combination, Opened the still box with a quickly made copy of the key, And removed the manuscript. But why, If they had the key and the combination, Would the theft be carried out by a person with the scent of cheap jasmine? Why would it be the butler's granddaughter or someone associated with her? Lady Beatrice looks at Henson, And her expression softens with a kind of weary realization. Henson, She says, Your granddaughter, Has she been having financial difficulties? The butler pauses for a moment, And he nods. Her father, My son, Is gravely ill. She has been trying to raise money for his treatment, A very large sum. Lady Beatrice turns to the empty box and smiles faintly. She sees the truth now. The theft was not for the manuscript itself. The manuscript was a distraction, She explains. Her voice a slow, Calming cadence. The thief didn't want the play, They wanted the box. The still-lined box is exceptionally heavy for its size. The manuscript itself was light, Made of old, Dry paper. Lady Beatrice reaches into the empty box once more, Running her fingers along the velvet lining. She presses down on the base. The bottom of the box, The velvet base, Lifts away to reveal a false bottom. And beneath the false bottom, Nestled on a bed of faded silk, Is a single glittering object. A breathtaking, Fist-sized diamond brooch. The famous Meriwether Star, Known to be worth many times the value of any manuscript. Lady Beatrice had placed it in the empty space beneath the manuscript yesterday, After a frightening report of a local burglary. She had forgotten to mention it. So certain, She was that no one would consider stealing the literary treasure. The thief, However, Had been much smarter. They had assumed the heavy box must contain something more than mere paper. They took the diamond brooch, Replacing it with the light manuscript. And then, No, Wait, They took everything, The diamond and the manuscript. The ultimate conclusion, A double theft, A key copied, A combination stolen, And a butler's love for his family exploited. The jasmine scent confirmed a link to the servants, And the false bottom confirmed the hidden motive. Mr. Finch and Miss Croft stare, Their breath held tight. Lady Beatrice sighs, A long, Tired sound. A simple diamond theft, She whispers, Masquerading as a literary crisis. A beautifully simple, Beautifully complex crime. Now, The rain outside is fading to near silence. The fire has dwindled to a few red embers, Pulsing softly. The mystery is solved, The puzzle is complete. Let the final details of the case, The rhythmic shush of the wind, And the quiet comfort of the house carry you away. You have earned your rest, There is nothing more to worry about, Nothing more to puzzle over. That concludes the story of the case of the missing manuscript at Merriweather Manor. I hope you've enjoyed this story, Have become relaxed, And possibly fallen asleep.

Reviews

Wonderful reading of a very good story. The reading pace, soft voice and light backing music is a very relaxing combination for me. Thank you so very much for sharing this story! Blessings 🙏✨🕊

Nice! I Love the stories you tell but particularly something like this, mysterious but not morbid, any more of those? Thanks!✌️✌️✌️