Ferns and moss grew in the crevices between the dark grey rocks.

“Where is the foundation stone?” I asked, my voice raised over the wind.

Arthur pointed the light toward a thick corner section of the wall.

The stones there were larger, flat-faced, and partially buried in the soil.

“Look for a small chisel mark,” Arthur said. “An ‘E’ carved into the granite.”

I knelt in the wet grass, the cold soaking straight through the knees of my jeans.

I began clearing away the dead leaves and thick ivy with my bare hands.

The dirt was cold and packed tight.

“Over here,” Arthur said, shifting the beam of light to the right.

I crawled closer, my fingers brushing against a rough, square stone.

There, half-hidden by a patch of dry lichen, was a faint, carved letter.

“This is it,” I said.

The stone was heavy, wedged tightly into the earth at the base of the wall.

“We need something to pry it loose,” I said.

Arthur reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a sturdy brass pocketknife.

“Try using the flat of the blade,” he suggested, handing it to me.