Етюд у багряних тонах

           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.”