Этюд в багровых тонах
The Lauriston Garden Mystery
Hishandswereclenchedandhisarmsthrownabroad,whilehislowerlimbswereinterlockedasthoughhisdeathstrugglehadbeenagrievousone. Onhisrigidfacetherestoodanexpressionofhorror,andasitseemedtome,ofhatred,suchasIhaveneverseenuponhumanfeatures. Thismalignantandterriblecontortion,combinedwiththelowforehead,bluntnose,andprognathousjawgavethedeadmanasingularlysimiousandape-likeappearance,whichwasincreasedbyhiswrithing,unnaturalposture. Ihaveseendeathinmanyforms,butneverhasitappearedtomeinamorefearsomeaspectthaninthatdarkgrimyapartment,whichlookedoutupononeofthemainarteriesofsuburbanLondon.
Lestrade,leanandferret-likeasever,wasstandingbythedoorway,andgreetedmycompanionandmyself.
“Thiscasewillmakeastir,sir,”heremarked. “ItbeatsanythingIhaveseen,andIamnochicken.”
“Thereisnoclue?”saidGregson.
“Noneatall,”chimedinLestrade.
SherlockHolmesapproachedthebody,and,kneelingdown,examineditintently. “Youaresurethatthereisnowound?”heasked,pointingtonumerousgoutsandsplashesofbloodwhichlayallround.
“Positive!”criedbothdetectives.
“Then,ofcourse,thisbloodbelongstoasecondindividual—8presumablythemurderer,ifmurderhasbeencommitted. ItremindsmeofthecircumstancesattendantonthedeathofVanJansen,inUtrecht,intheyear‘34. Doyourememberthecase,Gregson?”
“No,sir.”
“Readitup—youreallyshould. Thereisnothingnewunderthesun. Ithasallbeendonebefore.”
