At the Scene of the Crime: Ten Little Indians: Captain Philip Lombard
Justice Wargrave and Emily Brent share a cab, while Philip Lombard and Vera In the twilight, he looks like a “a young god” as he drives toward them. Blore ties his tie and notices the “Ten Little Indians” rhyme over his mantelpiece. Philip Lombard's callous statement—“Natives don't mind dying, you know. Lombard respects and admires Vera Claythorne, because he recognizes his a strange sort of connection (I think you've caught the depraved nature behind it). act by charging at her—and she shoots him down like a mad dog. By the time he was 17, for Philip Lombard, both were to be true. . He felt little to no connection to his fellow man, something he did not communicate Which is why, the day Philip first set eyes on Vera Claythorne, he had . Good God, how he'd love to rip that awful skirt off of her preferably with his teeth.
Vera left home with no sorrow in her heart; instead she felt eagerness for the world that may reside outside she tiny Devonshire village. So, like all others who had stifling upbringings in the countryside, Vera headed for London. From there, she worked in schools, finding it deathly boring but convincing herself that everyone felt that way.
Perhaps that was why she found herself taking as many of the male staff members as lovers as she could, whether they had wives or not. She liked the thrill that accompanied them lying for her, her lying to get them alone It was all a game.
Her mother always suggested she would be a harlot, since she had no Soul Mark to suggest otherwise, so as she grew older, she asked herself, why fight it? Women weren't supposed to admit such things, of course, but she did. She adored the thrill of it; the ability to make the most ferocious and aloof of men succumb and submit to whatever she wanted.
It was a heady drug in itself, never mind when it was combined with alcohol, which it usually was. Such thoughts had come back to her at the dock, as the skin along her collarbone began to tingle and itch with an alien intensity.
In an attempt to distract herself, Vera allowed herself to focus on the sharp lines of his face, just for a moment; the way his impressive jawline ticked when another man seemed to try to take charge, but relaxed upon catching her eye. She attempted to do so in her most nonchalant of voices, already assessing that this was a man put off by intensity.
She could see herself in his sunglasses and made sure that she did not squirm or react too much to his presence. Somehow, she already knew that would not be wise.
Lombard He had been incredibly surprised when he saw the enticing mystery brunette with the skirt and the stockings and the feisty eyes get off at the tiny station by the harbour and even more taken aback when she also walked down to the dock.
He felt her gaze sweeping over his face whenever he was turned away from her. The first time, this was no doubt an attempt to appear scathing of him, but afterward, he felt content and smug in the knowledge she kept looking.
In his many a liaison with women, Philip Lombard knew this could only mean one thing. If there had been any room for doubt in his mind of her attraction to him, it dissipated under her fleeting, insistent glances. When she asked his name, he was surprised by the guttural urges that surged through him at the sound of her voice.
It frustrated him, considering she had said just one word. He was not a fifteen year old groping himself over dirty postcards behind the pub anymore, for God's sake! He did not look at her again after that, enjoying the prospect of toying with her.
Her room was down the corridor from his own, he'd noted as Mrs. Rogers accompanied her there. His ignored the uncomfortable tightening in his trousers at his thoughts digressed toward that of her being just a few short paces away, undressing herself Good God, how he'd love to rip that awful skirt off of her He smirked to himself as he lit a cigarette and went about unpacking his case, laying his dinner suit out for pressing.
Such outcomes, as enticing as they were as they layered in his imagination, would have to wait. Something told him Miss Claythorne would not be easy prey. Claythorne After her run in with Mrs. Rogers below stairs, Vera felt rattled. She did not like being treated as though she was incompetent — she did not like being told she was wrong. She had simply been attempting to assess the building in which she resided, supposedly as an employee, after all!
It was hardly an unjust expectation. Consequently, when she had made her way into the drawing room to explore where she would not be challenged and come across Philip, she felt her tackles rise even higher. She hadn't heard him come in, but she sensed that was his intention; sneaking up on people so he always had the upper hand.
It—it makes sense — s'amusing — " She found her tone was stiff, the tiny trace of a stutter even creeping into her speech under the weight of his presence. He spoke then about their hosts being inclined to whimsy over his crystal brandy glass; his words almost a slur. She wondered if he'd been drinking before dinner, or perhaps that was simply her ignorance surrounding the Irish lilt that made her think so.
She gazed over her shoulder toward him and instantly wished she hadn't; the sight of him in a perfectly fitted dinner suit making her want — a most violent and urgent sensation that she had not expected and was most inconvenient. She did not want to feel such a draw to a man who leered at her the way he did. Instantly, she steeled herself to such urges, for she was here to work — actually work — and this man was nothing but trouble; trouble being something she could do to steer clear of, considering the reason for her leaving her last employment.
She could hear the smirk he barely kept from his voice. He was taunting her. Without the patience left in her to challenge him, she swallowed, knowing she had to quit the room. As she went to pass him, she was surprised to find he halted her, blocking her route with his foot.
He rose her eyes to her with a roll of the head, motioning with his glass. She lowered her eyes to the floor, unable to look down on him in such a beautiful suit. Partially, the site of him below her gave her such a feeling power, arousal stoking so powerfully within her that she simply could not cope with. Mostly though, she did not want to blow her cover; she did not want this man to know her, to see her At least not until she knew him better.
That and he simply made her fucking infuriated. Lombard He could not help it; he'd simply had to say it. He wanted to see that flash in her eyes. He wanted to see the real Miss Claythorne again. He knew that tone. This was a woman on the edge He did not even blink; as was his way when he was in pursuit of prey. Like the cat, he was ever-patient when he knew what he wanted, unfaltering and quiet. She swallowed hard, the movement of her throat stirring his chest.
Yes, little liar, he thought. Marston interrupted them then with his usual, ridiculous pomp. Philip had disliked him before he even spoke a word, the way he sauntered before a roomful of strangers as though they should all just about fall to their knees before him.
He despised such men and their entitlement. It made his fingers itch with murderous intent. As Marston prattled on about the Corcoran, Philip felt his patience becoming dangerously frayed, mostly because the twat spoke to him as though they moved in the same circles, when they both knew full well he did not and had no intention of ever doing so.
Who even said such a thing? Philip was half tempted to rise to his feet and show the damned fool just how much of a someone he could be; someone to be feared, that is. In fact, he'd been hired by the Corcoran for a hit or two, now he thought about it. What an image his petulant fool's face would make if he knew. His jaw ticked as he watched the young man's mouth continue, regardless of the fact neither of the other souls in the room had contributed anything to the conversation.
As Marston asked for his drink, describing it 'pink as a virgin's blush' purely to instil a level of discomfort and a message of flirtation to Miss Claythorne, Philip was not sure why, but he really did not like that. He did not like the idea of other men making her squirm and fight her instincts — not when he could be doing so. He did not like the idea of other men objectifying her gender before her, implying sexual relations in front of her, because that meant they were most likely imagining her, nude and sinful, in their depraved minds Something that Philip Lombard suddenly decided should be a privilege only he could enjoy.
He focused on the awful Englishman's face either way, though not out of interest or want to do so, but in order to prevent himself showing Miss Claythorne too much of his interest — which, in that dress, was considerably difficult.
Philip couldn't help but flick his eyes to Miss Claythorne, who was nursing a sherry in his peripheral vision, knowing she was just the type to wager a risk, underneath it all. He then made an ignorant comment about war, only for Philip to suddenly lose all hope and interest in the boy.
It astounded him how those with such money and status could be so detached from the society they profit from so. He allowed his gaze to roam over her despite Marston's presence and watched her squeeze her thighs together beneath her dress — a move so slight he was not even sure she realised it. The fact Marston could see his appreciation of Miss Claythorne made him feel territorial, like a tomcat staking his claim, which left him feeling high and powerful, as though he'd taken a hit of whatever powder Marston was so clearly high on.
The blue silk clung to her in all the most agreeable of ways, the movement against her skin much more flattering than that ridiculous skirt she had worn on the train, which had seemed to hold her like a straight jacket.
Granted, this dress bunched around her hips a little, but all that did was allow for an utterly tantalising display of her backside. It was a delightful dress, but something told him she was partial to cuts of cloth even more enticing than this She had her own hand curled around her own middle, as though to hold herself together. He identified the feeling as the same he himself had felt watching her walk away on the train; that inward conflict to revert to complete animalistic mating rituals that almost, almost wins out.
She turned her head, evidently hoping to candidly watch his face as he replied, but instead caught him looking right at her. Typically nonchalant as Miss Claythorne seemed desperate to be, she instantly turned her gaze away, but it was too late.
More cautious men would warn that Miss Claythorne did in fact despise his leering behaviour and his blatant intentions, and perhaps it was true Little Miss Claythorne could lie and lie until the crows came home to roost to all the others on this island There was no point challenging the instinct of Philip Lombard, for you would always lose.
It was answering the one that hung, massive and deathly silent, tangled in the fabric of his acquaintance with Miss Claythorne. Marston left then, since neither Philip or Miss Claythorne were paying him any attention. The silence he left behind was stark as the delightfully stubborn woman before him still refused to shift her gaze, even now they were alone. Suddenly Philip felt the urge to do something he had done so very few times in his life, even if just for show: He was not sure why he thought that would be convincing, or exactly why even said it, but either way, it wasn't.
He felt his internal sexual appetite sag with disappointment at the prospect, but at least her quitting the room meant he could watch her body in that dress as she did. She was rejecting him.
The ATTWN Fan Who Also Shipped Lombard/Vera
Perhaps she deserved more respect than he had given her credit for. Women usually never saw through his ability to rid them of their clothing, never mind challenged him on it.
Miss Claythorne, whether she liked it or not, imprinted herself into the canvas of Philip's life that day — her intrigue too great to be ignored.philip lombard - i know what i am. [LMC]
He swallowed his frustration at her rejection, the burn of it unwelcome in his chest. With a deep breath, he retrieved a cigarette and poised it between his lips, feeling the familiar tick and tremor as his body anticipated the soothe of the smoke. The little liar was perpetually tightly wound He'd keep that in mind for future reference.
Claythorne Throughout dinner, Vera also forgot of how her Mr. Lombard had set her blood boiling, instead enjoying civilised conversation with Judge Wargrave. It was a delightfully refreshing change, not to be looked at like a sitting duck for a while.
That being said, she had to force herself not to be distracted by the way Mr. Lombard tipped his glass and downed his wine in one, or by the way he smirked upon the Judge's mention of girls sharpening hockey sticks.
He evidently liked the idea of overexcitable schoolgirls — which did not surprise her in the slightest. That is, until conversation turned to Soul Markings. Brent's words; a stiffen that had been conditioned into her after years of being laughed at and ridiculed.
On one occasion, even laughed at just prior to sex. It's hardly someone's fault if they're born without one, she wanted to say, but she knew that would make her own Marking status obvious. So, instead, she remained quiet and observed. He had said it as though a hundred guineas was nothing to him. A hundred guineas when he was literally down to his last square meal! There are several things wrong with this. The first thing is that it gives you a wrong impression about the characters—the censored edition makes you think that Lombard knows Morris much better than he really does!
So why should he care? This is a crime fuelled by prejudice and selfishness—even General Macarthur, who abused a similar position to send Arthur Richmond to his death, is shocked. But more on that in the next instalment.
The Russian adaptation goes the opposite direction, adding a scene where Lombard semi-rapes Vera Claythorne, making him into an even bigger villain! Christie never portrays Lombard as a decent or likeable character; his bigotry and egoism make him monstrous. Many readers on the Agatha Christie website say that they wish Lombard and Vera had survived gotten together at the end in a traditional happy ending. If this were a slightly different setting—say a Devon country house with foreign spies and diplomats running around stealing secret treaties from each other at 4 AM—Lombard is the type who might join in the fun.
Lombard shares one quality with U.
This is especially apparent in the opening stages of the book. On the first night, the guests defend themselves from Mr.
Marked Chapter 1, an and then there were none fanfic | FanFiction
Lombard callously and in no uncertain language admits to the truth and mocks everyone else by pointing out how they are all so very respectable. Too late he realizes that he is going to die, and all because he thought a woman was too dumb to do him any harm. Lombard decides on one final desperate act by charging at her—and she shoots him down like a mad dog. His own arrogance is his undoing.