Native Son - Richard Wright [140]
“Mrs. Dalton,” the man said, “I’m the Deputy Coroner and it is with considerable anxiety that I ask you these questions. But it is necessary for me to trouble you in order to establish the identity of the deceased….”
“Yes, sir,” Mrs. Dalton whispered.
Carefully, the coroner lifted from the table at his side a tiny piece of blackened metal; he turned, fronted Mrs. Dalton, then paused. The room was so quiet that Bigger could hear the coroner’s footsteps on the wooden floor as he walked to Mrs. Dalton’s chair. Tenderly, he caught her hand in his and said,
“I’m placing in your hand a metal object which the police retrieved from the ashes of the furnace in the basement of your home. Mrs. Dalton, I want you to feel this metal carefully and tell me if you remember ever having felt it before.”
Bigger wanted to turn his eyes away, but he could not. He watched Mrs. Dalton’s face; he saw the hand tremble that held the blackened bit of metal. Bigger jerked his head round. A woman began to sob without restraint. A wave of murmurs rose through the room. The coroner took a quick step back to the table and rapped sharply with his knuckles. The room was instantly quiet, save for the sobbing woman. Bigger looked back to Mrs. Dalton. Both of her hands were now fumbling nervously with the piece of metal; then her shoulders shook. She was crying.
“Do you recognize it?”
“Y-y-yes….”
“What is it?”
“A-a-an earring….”
“When did you first come in contact with it?”
Mrs. Dalton composed her face, and, with tears on her cheeks, answered,
“When I was a girl, years ago….”
“Do you remember precisely when?”
“Thirty-five years ago.”
“You once owned it?”
“Yes; it was one of a pair.”
“Yes, Mrs. Dalton. No doubt the other earring was destroyed in the fire. This one dropped through the grates into the bin under the furnace. Now, Mrs. Dalton, how long did you own this pair of earrings?”
“For thirty-three years.”
“How did they come into your possession?”
“Well, my mother gave them to me when I was of age. My grandmother gave them to my mother when she was of age, and I in turn gave them to my daughter when she was of age….”
“What do you mean, of age?”
“At eighteen.”
“And when did you give them to your daughter?”
“About five years ago.”
“She wore them all the time?”
“Yes.”
“Are you positive that this is one of the same earrings?”
“Yes. There can be no mistake. They were a family heirloom. There are no two others like them. My grandmother had them designed and made to order.”
“Mrs. Dalton, when were you last in the company of the deceased?”
“Last Saturday night, or I should say, early Sunday morning.”
“At what time?”
“It was nearly two o’clock, I think.”
“Where was she?”
“In her room, in bed.”
“Were you in the habit of seeing, I mean, in the habit of meeting your daughter at such an hour?”
“No. I knew that she’d planned to go to Detroit Sunday morning. When I heard her come in I wanted to find out why she’d stayed out so late….”
“Did you speak with her?”
“No. I called her several times, but she did not answer.”
“Did you touch her?”
“Yes; slightly.”
“But she did not speak to you?”
“Well, I heard some mumbling….”
“Do you know who it was?”
“No.”
“Mrs. Dalton, could your daughter by any means, in your judgment, have been dead then, and you not have known or suspected it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you know if your daughter was alive when you spoke to her?”
“I don’t know. I assumed she was.”
“Was there anyone else in the room at the time?”
“I don’t know. But I felt strange there.”
“Strange? What do you mean, strange?”
“I—I don’t know. I wasn’t satisfied, for some reason. It seemed to me that there was something I should have done, or said. But I kept saying to myself,