The Glass Lake by Maeve Binchy

couldn’t get beyond the first “M.”
    Clio looked at him sympathetically. “Oh Emmet, your stammer has come back,” she said.
    Philip stood up. “There’s probably enough people here, Clio. Could you go home now,” he said.
    Clio snapped at him.
    â€œHe’s right, Clio.” Kit found her voice very calm and clear. “Thank you very, very much for coming, but Philip was asked to keep the place sort of clear, for when everyone’s coming back.”
    â€œI want to be here when everyone comes back.” Clio seemed like a spoiled child.
    There was the “I” again, Kit noticed. “You’re a wonderful friend. I knew you’d understand,” Kit said. And Clio went down the stairs.
    The clock ticked on with its new whir, and none of them said anything at all.

    â€œThere’s not going to be anything until the light of day,” said Sergeant O’Connor, shaking his head.
    â€œWe can’t just leave it and go home.” Peter Kelly’s face ran with sweat, or tears or rain, it was impossible to tell.
    â€œBe sensible, man. You’ll have half the people here as your patients and the other half up in the graveyard if they go on. There’s nothing to be found, I tell you. Go on, tell the tinkers to go home, will you.”
    â€œDon’t call them tinkers, Sean.” But Peter Kelly knew it was neither the time nor the place to try and impose some sensitivity onto Sergeant Sean O’Connor.
    â€œWhat’ll I call them, Household Cavalry? Apache Indians?”
    â€œCome on, they’ve been a great help…they’ve no reason to be friends to any of us…they’re doing their best.”
    â€œThey look like savages with those torches. They make my flesh creep.”
    â€œIf it helped to find her…” Peter began.
    â€œOh she’ll be found all right, but it won’t make any difference to anyone whether it’s tonight or next Tuesday week.”
    â€œYou’re very sure?” Peter said.
    Sean O’Connor had a simple direct way of getting to the truth of things, and tonight it left no area for doubt or hope. “Sure wasn’t the poor woman out of her wits?” the sergeant said. “Didn’t you see her night and day, wandering around here, half talking to herself. It’s only a mystery that she didn’t do it sooner.”
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â 
    A tall dark woman brought Martin McMahon a cup from her caravan.
    â€œDrink this,” she said. It was like an order.
    He sipped it and made a face. “What is it? I thought it was tea,” he said.
    â€œI wouldn’t give you anything to harm you,” she said. Her voice was low; he barely heard it above the wind, and the calling all around the lake’s edge.
    â€œThank you indeed,” he said, and drank what tasted like Bovril with something sharp in it. It could have been anything; he didn’t care.
    â€œBe calm,” the woman said to him. “Try not to shake and tremble, it may well be all right.”
    â€œThey think my wife…” he said.
    â€œI know, but she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t go anywhere without telling you,” said the woman in her low voice that he had to strain to hear.
    He turned to thank her, to tell her that he knew this was true, but she had slipped back into the shadows.
    He heard Sergeant O’Connor calling off the search for the night. He saw his friend Peter coming to take him home. Martin McMahon knew he must be strong for their children.
    Helen would have wanted that.

    R ITA heard them coming.
    She knew by the shufflings and low voices down at the hall door there was no good news to tell. She ran into the kitchen to put on the kettle.
    Philip O’Brien stood up. It wasn’t often he was in charge, but he knew he was in charge now. “Your father will be all wet from the rain,” he said. Kit was wordless. “Is there an