McCalliog and his hens (3)

I went into town.  I wasn’t going to ring Tilly before I had all of the facts.   

Meirson’s didn’t look the site of a kerfuffle, it looked the same as it had for the twenty years I had lived here.    

I went to go inside, but I was stopped, by a large, skinhead, who was standing outside the door. 

“You can’t go in there,” he said. 

“Why not?” 

“I don’t know. I’m just here to stop people going in.” 

I stood there nonplussed for a while, then I saw Meirson rushing through the shop to the door. 

“Come in, come in,” he said to me. 

“But I thought I was to keep people out,” the skinhead said. 

“Of course not Nigel, this is a shop, we live off customers. You need to let them in.” 

“So, er, I don’t let them out again.” 

“Let them in, let them out. You’re just there to stop people walking off with the painting.” 

I went into the shop, leaving the skinhead scratching his head. 

“What’s with the neanderthal?” I said. 

“It’s my painting, my McCalliog. It turns out it’s worth a fortune. The last one sold for half a million, but they’re going up in price all the time. There are two billionaires both outbidding each other, trying to establish the biggest collection of McCalliog hens.  

“So you’ve hired security.” 

“I can’t keep anything that valuable in this shop, the alarm system I have will keep out petty thieves trying to raid a till, but this painting will attract international gangs.” 

“You think your security guard is going to outwit criminal masterminds.” 

“Good lord no, the only thing he’s keeping out is genuine customers. I just hired him to keep the insurers happy, the painting’s being picked up this afternoon by an auction house used to dealing with this type of money.  They have vaults and everything.” 

“Can I see the painting?” I said. “Only my parents used to have a McCalliog. I’d love to see another.” 

“Good lord, another McCalliog. Do you still have it?” 

“I don’t know. My sister took it when they died. We had no idea it was worth anything.” 

“Neither had I. Well, not on this level. I handled one decades ago, which sold for a few hundred pounds or so. That's why I recognised it as a McCalliog when I saw it being sold at auction, attributed to an ‘unknown artist’.

“You’re certain it’s genuine?” 

“The auction house will do all the  signature’s clear enough, and the style is unmistakable. Well, you’ll know if you’ve got one.  Which breed of chicken was it?” 

“It wasn’t chickens, it was ducks.” 

“Ducks.  I’ve never heard of that, McCalliog ducks.  You’ll have to tell Miss Armitage.” 

“Who’s Miss Armitage?” I said, but he didn’t respond, as we’d reached the back of the store. Meirson gestured at the painting, a brilliant, bright pair of Orphingtons. 

“Look at that,” Meirson said. “You can see why the value’s going through the roof, the brush-work is ineffable. Look at those Orpingtons, they’re practically alive and pecking.” 

It was an amazing work of art, as if the chickens were indeed there in the room with us. 

“It’s beyond three-dimensional,” I said. “There’s almost a living quality to them. Our ducks were the same.” 

“I bet they were. Oh, I hope you find the painting.  Miss Artmitage will be thrilled.” 

“Who is she?” I said. 

“Oh, a McCalliog expert. She’s written books and everything. She’s coming to look at the picture today, give an initial verdict on the authenticity of the work and its value. 

As he spoke we noticed a confrontation at the front door, where a young woman was trying to gain entry but was being kept out by the security.  Meirson rushed to the door again. 

“For goodness sake Nigel, how many times do I have to tell you, don’t keep the customers out.” 

“I’m not a customer,” said the woman. 

“Ah, you must be Miss Armitage. I was just talking about you.” 

“Celia,” she held out a hand, which Meirson took and shook.  

“You were talking about me.” 

“Oh yes, this gentleman has a McCalliog too. Well, his parents did, his sister has it now apparently.” 

Celia looked at me with interest. “Which breed?” she said. 

“Sorry?” 

“Which breed of chicken?” 

“It wasn’t chickens," I said. “It was ducks.” 

“Ducks,” she said. “But McCalliog only painted chickens. Except ... good lord, if this is genuine it’ll be absolutely priceless. I have to do have a look at the Orpingtons now, but can I meet you afterwards and you can tell me all about your ducks.” 

“Fine,” I said. “There’s a coffee shop just across the road, do you want to meet me there in an hour. It should give me time to get in touch with Tilly.” 

“Tilly?” 

“My sister.”