Of all the many Dickensian things about the late Sir Jimmy Savile, perhaps none is more so than the fact that the National Westminster Bank, a name straight out of Dickens, is rapidly eating away great chunks of his estate in its capacity as the trustee, such that there might be none left for anyone who might be found to have a claim against it.
That estate ought to be distributed forthwith, in undeviating accordance with Sir Jimmy's last will and testament. All claims still standing after that will be deserving of further consideration and investigation, with no pecuniary motive. Those, and none other.
Of course, he was not without his protectress. Claims could always therefore be made against her estate. He would have been at her funeral on Wednesday. Both that occasion and that person could only have been imagined by Trollope, if anyone, and then only as a joke. But this is no joke. We are.
That estate ought to be distributed forthwith, in undeviating accordance with Sir Jimmy's last will and testament. All claims still standing after that will be deserving of further consideration and investigation, with no pecuniary motive. Those, and none other.
Of course, he was not without his protectress. Claims could always therefore be made against her estate. He would have been at her funeral on Wednesday. Both that occasion and that person could only have been imagined by Trollope, if anyone, and then only as a joke. But this is no joke. We are.
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