What Downton Abbey can teach us about dying without a will

Where there's a will, there's a way.

Downton Abbey devotees and law students alike must have heaved a collective sigh of relief with the return to our screens of that compulsive lesson in legal history, cunningly disguised as a period costume drama.

Those who have not been drawn into the mystery and intrigue of the occupants of Downton Abbey, who seem to have suffered more communal misfortune than one would reasonably expect of an extended family (but no doubt a requirement for the television ratings), can stop reading now.

All others, take note for our first tutorial, of the references to the outdated (even then) but shortly to be amended laws on intestacy (Matthew failed to make a will) resulting in Lady Mary’s diminished share in the estate and looming spectre of heavy death duties.

While death at an early age is always tragic and as was observed of Matthew, he anticipated being around for many years thence, what happens on intestacy generally seems to come as something of a shock.

The rules, which determine the distribution on a person’s death of any of his or her property not governed by a valid will, are largely contained in the Administration of Estates Act 1925 (spookily coinciding roughly with the current Downton period - will Lord Grantham vote on it in the House of Lords?) and the Intestates’ Estates Act 1952.

By and large these have not kept pace with the requirements or expectations of modern family life. Back in 2009 the Law Commission published a consultation paper on various aspects of the rules, some of which have been included in the Inheritance and Trustees’ Powers Bill 2013 which is working its way through the House of Lords as I write.

Under the current provisions, however, in the absence of a valid will by Matthew, because his estate is likely to have been valued at more than £250,000 and he was survived by a wife and child, Lady Mary's entitlement today would still be limited. She could claim for herself a statutory legacy of £250,000 and all of Matthew's personal chattels.

The balance of Matthew's estate would then be divided in two with Lady Mary receiving a life interest (ie income only) in one half of the estate. The gorgeous George would be entitled to the other half of the estate on statutory trusts and the half of the estate in which his mother has a life interest, on her death.

This was probably not the result she and Matthew (or indeed Lord Grantham) were hoping to achieve by virtue of their collective and cumulative efforts in the previous three series. Do note, however, that in certain circumstances, the provisions of intestacy can be varied in the same way as one can vary a will.

However, in my experience what is sometimes more surprising for clients is not necessarily the effects of intestacy but the fact that despite having gone to the trouble of officially anticipating one’s demise and providing for it (as far as one's property is concerned) in a considered manner, one can find oneself inadvertently rendered intestate.

For example, if a testator divorces (or ends a civil partnership) his will takes effect as if his former spouse or civil partner had died before him, subject to express contrary intention. Similarly, marriage revokes a will unless it was drafted expressly in contemplation of the said nuptials. Of course, as a solicitor, Matthew should have known this, but perhaps he took too great a heed of the adage 'A solicitor who acts for himself has a fool for a client.'

Other topics for discussion in future tutorials might be the content of Nanny West’s employment contract (did she breach a condition that both charges should be treated equally?), the grounds for divorce in other jurisdictions or the extent to which the estate could qualify for agricultural, business or even heritage property for inheritance taxes. Who ever thought Downton was an education?

Sophie Mazzier is counsel at City private wealth law firm Maurice Turnor Gardner LLP

This piece first appeared on Spear's Magazine

Photograph: Getty Images

This is a story from the team at Spears magazine.

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In the 1980s, I went to a rally where Labour Party speakers shared the stage with men in balaclavas

The links between the Labour left and Irish republicanism are worth investigating.

A spat between Jeremy Corbyn’s henchfolk and Conor McGinn, the MP for St Helens North, caught my ear the other evening. McGinn was a guest on BBC Radio 4’s Westminster Hour, and he obligingly revisited the brouhaha for the listeners at home. Apparently, following an interview in May, in which McGinn called for Corbyn to “reach out beyond his comfort zone”, he was first threatened obliquely with the sack, then asked for a retraction (which he refused to give) and finally learned – from someone in the whips’ office – that his party leader was considering phoning up McGinn’s father to whip the errant whipper-in into line. On the programme, McGinn said: “The modus operandi that he [Corbyn] and the people around him were trying to do [sic], involving my family, was to isolate and ostracise me from them and from the community I am very proud to come from – which is an Irish nationalist community in south Armagh.”

Needless to say, the Labour leader’s office has continued to deny any such thing, but while we may nurture some suspicions about his behaviour, McGinn was also indulging in a little airbrushing when he described south Armagh as an “Irish ­nationalist community”. In the most recent elections, Newry and Armagh returned three Sinn Fein members to the Northern Ireland Assembly (as against one Social Democratic and Labour Party member) and one Sinn Fein MP to Westminster. When I last looked, Sinn Fein was still a republican, rather than a nationalist, party – something that McGinn should only be too well aware of, as the paternal hand that was putatively to have been lain on him belongs to Pat McGinn, the former Sinn Fein mayor of Newry and Armagh.

According to the Irish News, a “close friend” of the McGinns poured this cold water on the mini-conflagration: “Anybody who knows the McGinn family knows that Pat is very proud of Conor and that they remain very close.” The friend went on to opine: “He [Pat McGinn] found the whole notion of Corbyn phoning him totally ridiculous – as if Pat is going to criticise his son to save Jeremy Corbyn’s face. They would laugh about it were it not so sinister.”

“Sinister” does seem the mot juste. McGinn, Jr grew up in Bessbrook during the Troubles. I visited the village in the early 1990s on assignment. The skies were full of the chattering of British army Chinooks, and there were fake road signs in the hedgerows bearing pictograms of rifles and captioned: “Sniper at work”. South Armagh had been known for years as “bandit country”. There were army watchtowers standing sentinel in the dinky, green fields and checkpoints everywhere, manned by some of the thousands of the troops who had been deployed to fight what was, in effect, a low-level counter-insurgency war. Nationalist community, my foot.

What lies beneath the Corbyn-McGinn spat is the queered problematics of the ­relationship between the far left wing of the Labour Party and physical-force Irish republicanism. I also recall, during the hunger strikes of the early 1980s, going to a “Smash the H-Blocks” rally in Kilburn, north London, at which Labour Party speakers shared the stage with representatives from Sinn Fein, some of whom wore balaclavas and dark glasses to evade the telephoto lenses of the Met’s anti-terrorist squad.

The shape-shifting relationship between the “political wing” of the IRA and the men with sniper rifles in the south Armagh bocage was always of the essence of the conflict, allowing both sides a convenient fiction around which to posture publicly and privately negotiate. In choosing to appear on platforms with people who might or might not be terrorists, Labour leftists also sprinkled a little of their stardust on themselves: the “stardust” being the implication that they, too, under the right circumstances, might be capable of violence in pursuit of their political ends.

On the far right of British politics, Her Majesty’s Government and its apparatus are referred to derisively as “state”. There were various attempts in the 1970s and 1980s by far-right groupuscules to link up with the Ulster Freedom Fighters and other loyalist paramilitary organisations in their battle against “state”. All foundered on the obvious incompetence of the fascists. The situation on the far left was different. The socialist credentials of Sinn Fein/IRA were too threadbare for genuine expressions of solidarity, but there was a sort of tacit confidence-and-supply arrangement between these factions. The Labour far left provided the republicans with the confidence that, should an appropriately radical government be elected to Westminster, “state” would withdraw from Northern Ireland. What the republicans did for the mainland militants was to cloak them in their penumbra of darkness: without needing to call down on themselves the armed might of “state”, they could imply that they were willing to take it on, should the opportunity arise.

I don’t for a second believe that Corbyn was summoning up these ghosts of the insurrectionary dead when he either did or did not threaten to phone McGinn, Sr. But his supporters need to ask themselves what they’re getting into. Their leader, if he was to have remained true to the positions that he has espoused over many years, should have refused to sit as privy counsellor upon assuming his party office, and refused all the other mummery associated with the monarchical “state”. That he didn’t do so was surely a strategic decision. Such a position would make him utterly unelectable.

The snipers may not be at work in south Armagh just now – but there are rifles out there that could yet be dug up. I wouldn’t be surprised if some in Sinn Fein knew where they are, but one thing’s for certain: Corbyn hasn’t got a clue, bloody or otherwise. 

Will Self is an author and journalist. His books include Umbrella, Shark, The Book of Dave and The Butt. He writes the Madness of Crowds and Real Meals columns for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 25 August 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Cameron: the legacy of a loser