Sisterchicks Go Brit! by Robin Jones Gunn

now.” The taxi driver ran down a list of dates and facts about Lewis and his brother, Warnie, and how the two of them had bought the house in 1930 and lived there more than thirty years. He went on to explain how the acreage around the Kilns had been undeveloped when Lewis lived there. “If you can be nimble about it, a nature trail at the end of the road will lead you out to a small lake.”
    My blood still was pumping from all the dashing around at Tolkien’s former residence. This was a fun way to see a lot in a short space of time. I was up for sprinting down a nature trail to see a lake. How much more Narnian could this adventure become?
    Turning the cab down a private road and into a residential area with several newer homes, our driver slowed down. He spoke rapidly. “You can just about see the Kilns there now, can’t you? Brick house on the right side.”
    Instead of continuing down the lane to Lewis’s home, our driver abruptly turned the cab around. In the spin of a moment, I noticed another car parked across the street from the brick house. Someone in the front seat was taking a picture. Not a picture of Lewis’s home but of us, of the taxi.
    Checking his rearview mirror, our driver said, “I’ve decided it will be faster if I take you to the church first.” He picked up speed and made a sharp turn.
    I looked out the back window. The other car was following us.
    “Are you sure it will be faster to come back to Lewis’s home?” Kellie asked. “We were right there.”
    “The church is not far. Just across the way from a pub that Jack and Warnie patronized. They walked to church each Sunday and always sat in the same pew. Try the church door. If it’s open, you’ll find the Lewis brothers’ bench on the left side halfway back. It’s marked with a plaque. The grave site might be a bit more challenging to find. It’s toward the rear area of the cemetery. Do you think five minutes will be enough time, or would you like ten?”
    We weren’t sure, so he went on to give us specific directions on how we were to turn to the right slightly when we exited the church and how many paces we were to take toward one of the largest old trees in the churchyard. If we kept our eyes open, we should have no trouble finding the flat grave marker with the Lewis inscription. Both Jack and his brother were buried there.
    “Why don’t you park the cab and come show us?” Kellie asked. “It seems that would be the most efficient way to find everything.”
    “We’ll pay more if we need to,” I offered.
    “No, I think this will work just fine for the two of you.” He checked his rearview mirror again. “Come out of the churchyard the same way you go in, and I’ll be waiting. What do you think? Five minutes going to be enough for you?”
    “Sure, I guess,” I answered for both of us.
    We scooted out and trotted down a dirt path under tall, sheltering trees that lined the walkway to the quaint and simple country chapel. The sandstone block construction gave the steep-roofed building that soft golden tone of so many other buildings we had seen in Oxford.
    I tried the latch on the church’s wooden plank door, and it opened. Right before entering the dimly lit, musty-smelling chapel, I noticed an elderly gentleman strolling through the graveyard. No one else seemed to be around. The events were beginning to take on the feel of a BBC cozy mystery.
    Kellie found the pew on the left side about three-fourths of the way back and next to a pillar. The bronze plate on the back of the pew stated, “Here sat and worshipped Clive Staples Lewis (1898–1963).”
    Kellie and I stood in the empty chapel and gazed around us. The pulpit was fronted with a large bronzed eagle. The floor was a pattern of dark and light tiles in a checkerboard pattern. The tiles were worn.
    “Look at the hair,” Kellie whispered.
    “Hair? What hair are you talking about?”
    “The hair on the Christ in the stained-glass window at the front. He