Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the Silver Islet Ghost

by

The Lake

Lake Superior did not draw Sir Arthur Conan Doyle – lecturer, spiritualist and creator of Sherlock Holmes – to Silver Islet, Ontario, in 1914 and again in 1923.

Neither was he lured by the flooded, deep-shaft silver mine with its gutted buildings still clinging to the tiny islet that gave the mainland community its name.

No, Sir Arthur came for mystical, spiritual reasons. He came because he loved ghost towns and their cemeteries, with their faded headstones and trees growing out of graves. And he came to keep a promise to my great-aunt Muriel.

On both occasions, the prolific Scottish author first stopped off at the Colonial Theatre in Port Arthur to deliver talks on spiritualism – a belief in the survival of the spirit after death and in our ability to communicate with these spirits.

Trained in medicine at the University of Edinburgh and a licensed physician, Conan Doyle took solace in spiritualism, especially after the death of his first wife. He was even a member of the Ghost Club, a paranormal investigative organization founded in London in 1862. (Today’s modern ghost hunters are not the first to investigate psychic phenomena.)

Conan Doyle was far from isolated in his beliefs. On that first trip to Silver Islet, he was accompanied by his publicist, his publicist’s secretary, and my great-aunt Muriel, all of them devout occultists. In fact, it was Aunt Muriel who persuaded Sir Arthur to visit Silver Islet. Her late stepfather, James Cawdor, was buried in the cemetery there, and she wished to contact him. I don’t know how much persuasion it took, but from all accounts,  Aunt Muriel was a feisty, self-confident woman. Very few things in life intimidated her. My parents used to say that her strong will was the result of her severe upbringing. Rather than marry her pregnant young mother, her biological father had fled to Africa, where, in 1874, he was murdered by Burundi tribesmen. So that her baby should not be born fatherless,  Aunt Muriel’s mother had selflessly married a gruff widower named James Cawdor. Unfortunately, the poor young thing did not survive her daughter’s birth. And so from infancy onward,  Aunt Muriel faced an uphill battle. Her stepfather didn’t really want her. Her step-siblings, an older brother and sister, resented her. And so she had no choice but to grow a thick skin. Throughout her life, she never forgot those who were kind to her, nor those who were cruel. During her teenage years, after her step-siblings moved away from Port Arthur and took up residence in southern Ontario, she served more or less as James Cawdor’s unpaid housekeeper.

But I digress. On June 25, 1914, a murky, overcast day, Aunt Muriel and Conan Doyle sailed to Silver Islet aboard the coastal steamer Forest City. After a late lunch in the tea room at the General Store, they walked along a rough gravel road to the cemetery.

On the way, they passed James Cawdor’s vacant house, Crannog, which had fallen into disrepair since his tragic death the year before. In the cemetery, under umbrellas protecting them against the rain, they stood beside his grave and spoke in hushed tones.

“Tell me, Muriel,” said Conan Doyle, “how did your stepfather earn his living?”

“He was a carpenter,” said Aunt Muriel. “A handyman. A jack-of-all-trades. He was also a sailor. One day he sailed to Silver Islet, saw all those vacant houses, and decided to take one for himself. He expected me to keep house for him.”

“More to the point, I suppose,” said Sir Arthur, “is: how did he die?”

“He fell down an old mine shaft on Silver Islet,” said Aunt Muriel, pointing to the small, tree-covered atoll a mile from shore, where, in the 1870s, protected by a coffer dam and timbered breakwaters, there had been a rich silver mine, the bold enterprise of Major Alexander H. Sibley’s Silver Islet Mining Company. After 14 glory years and the extraction of  millions of dollars worth of rich ore, the silver petered out, as silver invariably does, the steam pumps holding back Lake Superior were stopped, and the relentless waters of Gitchee-Gumee flooded the deep shaft. In 1884 the mine closed permanently. Silver Islet, at the southern extremity of the Sibley Peninsula, 10 nautical miles from Thunder Cape and within sight of Isle Royale, became a ghost town.

And yet, that abandoned old silver mine called to James Cawdor.

“In his later years, he became a bit of a recluse,” said Aunt Muriel. “He also became a bit of a dreamer. He concocted the idea that if he could lower himself down into the ancient workings of the mine, which had been abandoned since 1884, he might rediscover the vein, or find a bonanza of valuable silver ore. The day before he died, he told people he’d heard a voice, supposedly the voice of a long dead miner, who had advised him to get a rope a hundred feet long, or else build a ladder, and lower himself down. The miner’s ghost, if that’s who it was, would show him a secret hiding place full of silver nuggets.

“But next day, when he didn’t come home, people went out to the islet looking for him and spotted his lifeless body floating in the vertical shaft, which in those days was nine-tenths full of water.

“There was no rope, no ladder, and so he either fell or was pushed. They finally fished him out with grappling hooks. They sent for the coroner in Port Arthur, who found no evidence of foul play and ruled it an accidental drowning. They buried poor James in the cemetery, locked Crannog’s door, and put up a ‘No Trespassing’ sign on the islet.”

After giving this some quiet thought, Sir Arthur said, “Let’s see if we can get through to him.”

Which was exactly what Aunt Muriel had been hoping. But though they tried, standing there in the drizzle, on that dark, foreboding afternoon, listening for the sound of James Cawdor’s voice, or some other indication that he was aware of their presence, they observed nothing. They heard wind, waves, leaves rustling, the mournful cries of gulls and loons, but nothing supernatural.

Finally Sir Arthur said, “My dear Muriel, I think we’d stand a better chance at night, in your stepfather’s house, rather than here at his graveside in broad daylight. Unfortunately, I must return to Port Arthur this evening and catch the train for Sault Ste Marie. What I’d like to do is come back to Silver Islet next summer, stay overnight and conduct a proper séance. I’m sure that under the right circumstances we could summon forth your ancestor.”

Which, had it not been for the First World War, is what they might have done. As it turned out, however, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle did not return until July 1923, when he was 64 years old. His belief in spiritualism had not diminished, perhaps was even strengthened during his grieving for his son Kingsley, who died of pneumonia in 1918.

Once again Conan Doyle did a cross-Canada tour, and once again stopped off in Port Arthur for a lecture at the Colonial Theatre. Of course Aunt Muriel was there and was mildly surprised that Conan Doyle remembered his promise to return to Silver Islet with her.

“I’m looking forward to it,” he said, when she reminded him. “I think this time we’ll have better luck.”

The next afternoon, accompanied by Sir Arthur’s new publicist, a man named Booth, and Booth’s wife, Agnes, they sailed to Silver Islet aboard the Forest City.

The four of them took rooms at Gitchee-Gumee, Silver Islet’s one and only hotel, and enjoyed a tasty trout dinner on the rustic veranda. At dusk they walked along Lake Superior’s rocky shore to James Cawdor’s neglected house. By now, four years after the war, the once abandoned dwellings were lively with vacationers. Silver Islet had become a popular holiday spot and watering hole, at least during the summer months.

And yet, James Cawdor’s house retained a wintry feel. Unoccupied for 10 years, it was in a sad, deteriorating state. Nevertheless, Aunt Muriel, Conan Doyle, and their small entourage entered bravely.

Once inside, they lit candles and could hear bats squeaking in the eaves. The smell of mould and mildew, the eerie silence, the shadows, the hollow sound of their footsteps on the floorboards, were almost more than Aunt Muriel could bear. Not to mention the dust-covered furniture and the west wind sighing at the windows.

Sir Arthur said he thought their best chance of success would be in James Cawdor’s bedroom, and so that’s where they went. Aunt Muriel sat on the edge of the bed, while Sir Arthur and the others made themselves comfortable in rattan chairs.

Before a single word was uttered, Aunt Muriel felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise and her mouth go dry. She wondered if this was such a good idea after all. To be truthful, she almost regretted having suggested it.

Then, as though from a considerable distance, she heard Sir Arthur say, “Now, my dear Muriel, who was it you wished to contact?”

“My late lamented stepfather, James Cawdor,” whispered Aunt Muriel. “A good man, for the most part, though somewhat irascible and short-tempered, with human failings, such as a fondness for whiskey. He sought his fortune in a defunct mine and fell to his death down an abandoned shaft.”

“And who, if I’m not mistaken,” said Sir Arthur, “until his untimely end, inhabited these very premises. Who once sat in this very room, on these very chairs, who slept in this very bed, under this very roof, between these very walls, and who may be here now, this very night, wondering why it has taken his stepdaughter so long to make contact and express her sorrow.”

It was at that moment, according to what Aunt Muriel told my parents, that they heard what sounded like muffled footsteps, followed by strange splashing noises, followed by a long, shuddering sigh.

“James,” whispered Sir Arthur, his voice low and hoarse, “James Cawdor, is that you?”

Aunt Muriel would say later that although it was a warm night, she felt a cold gust of air, and cold hands gripping hers. She could smell damp stone and seaweed, and saw a faint, aqueous pool of light come floating down from the ceiling.

“I feel a presence,” whispered Sir Arthur. “Does anyone else feel it? James Cawdor, is that you?”

And then, according to Aunt Muriel, they heard the screech of rusty hinges, a fearful clanking of chains, or shovels on rock, and a pathetic, fading cry, as from someone falling.

“James!” hissed Sir Arthur, “your dutiful stepdaughter Muriel is here.”

At that exact moment, Aunt Muriel felt someone touch her right shoulder. It was, she said, a firm, familiar gesture, but an impossible one, because there was nobody near her. Nevertheless, she felt fingers on the back of her neck, and cold breath against her ear, and her nostrils were filled with the scent of damp, decaying flowers.

And that was pretty much all she remembered.

She had only a fuzzy recollection of leaving James Cawdor’s house, of stumbling along the road toward Gitchee-Gumee, supported by Mr. Booth and Agnes, following Sir Arthur, who carried a lantern. She faintly remembered being helped to her room by a young chambermaid, who lit her lamp for her and brought her a pitcher of hot water so that she could wash her face. No sooner had her head touched the pillow than she was fast asleep.

Next morning, when she awoke in her iron bedstead on the second floor of the hotel, sunlight was streaming through her window. She heard the calls of loons and gulls. The young chambermaid brought her another pitcher of hot water and a most welcome cup of tea and informed her that breakfast was being served downstairs, where her three friends were waiting.

At breakfast, Sir Arthur sat beside her while Mr. Booth and his wife hovered solicitously. A waiter in white jacket and shiny shoes brought bowls of porridge, tea and scones. Aunt Muriel was intrigued to hear that during her trance the night before, some unseen entity had called her by name, had engaged her in conversation, while Sir Arthur and the others had listened to her responses. At one point, as though from a gust of wind, all the candles in the house had gone out simultaneously.

“You referred several times to your dead mother,” said Mr. Booth. “You seemed to be protesting your innocence regarding her death. And you kept repeating the name James Cawdor, seemingly begging his forgiveness …”

“Of course,” said Aunt Muriel. “I could feel his presence. He held my hands and touched me on the shoulder.”

“Once or twice,” said Sir Arthur, “the spirit seemed to shake you bodily, making us fear for your safety.”

“I have no recollection of that,” said Aunt Muriel, “though I don’t doubt it. My stepfather used to shake me when I misbehaved. When he’d had too much to drink, he used to shake me and blame me for my mother’s death. She died shortly after bringing me into the world. From beyond the grave, he was still blaming me, still scolding me.”

“You gave the impression of being poised on a precipice,” said Agnes Booth. “Of being prepared for flight. It took our collective strength to hold you back. And we heard a man’s voice calling from a great distance, a voice full of sorrow, or of accusation.”

“There is no doubt in my mind,” Aunt Muriel said softly, “that it was the voice of my departed stepfather, James Cawdor.”

At which point Sir Arthur reached out and held Aunt Muriel’s hand. “There’s a question I’ve been meaning to ask,” he said. “The day your stepfather fell down the mine shaft, was there anyone else on the islet?”

Aunt Muriel thought about this, accepted another cup of tea. “I hardly think so,” she said. “I believe he was entirely alone.”

They spent a leisurely morning on the hotel veranda, talking quietly, enjoying the sunshine. When Sir Arthur suggested they stay a second night and try to reconvene with James Cawdor’s ghost at Crannog, Aunt Muriel politely, but firmly, said no.

They went for a walk as far as Catholic Point, stopped at the Post Office so that Sir Arthur and the Booths could mail letters back to England. Then they strolled over to Jail Beach, where the Stamp Mill, now in ruins, had once crushed silver-laden ore brought from the islet by barge.

At midday, under bright sunshine, they returned to Gitchee-Gumee for lunch and later that afternoon boarded the Forest City for the return trip to Port Arthur. A rather large crowd had gathered on the dock to bid them bon voyage, because, as Aunt Muriel told my parents, it wasn’t every day that a personage of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s stature paid an overnight visit to Silver Islet.

From the Notebook of Sir Arthur

These notations were made by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle during his 1914 trip in Canada. These June dates, he visited near Lake Superior. His notebook is now found in the Toronto Public Library and can be seen on the library’s website.  

Fine Straits of Sault St Marie.

Tonnage. One Lake boat carries a train load, 400,000 bushels. Get out on Lake Superior

Saw at Sault St Marie which is a rising place, 25,000, the Algoma Indian Home, also a Hudson Bay log hut for defence.

(June) 24  Fort William. Bought land.

(June) 25  Round Lake Superior - Desolate land - Copper - Iron - Sturgeon in Reeds.

Bill MacDonald, former logger, Arctic weatherman, immigration officer and school teacher, wrote more than 25 books before his death in September 2014. He lived in Thunder Bay and Silver Islet and was the recipient of the prestigious Elizabeth Kouhi Award, which is presented annually by the Northwestern Ontario Writers’ Workshop to authors who have made a significant contribution to regional literature.