What if literary masterpieces were written by different authors

What if Mickey Spillane had written Jane Eyre.

I shook the rain from my hat and walked into the room. Nobody said a word. They stepped back politely and I could feel their eyes on me. Mr. Rochester was standing by the door to the bedroom trying to steady Jane. The girl’s body was racking with dry sobs. I walked over and put my arms around her.

“Take it easy, kid,” I told her. “Come on over here and lie down.” I led her to a damask settee that was against the far wall and sat her down. She was in pretty bad shape. One of the constables put a pillow down for her and she stretched out.

Rochester motioned me over to him and pointed to the bedroom. “In there, Mike,” he said.

In there. The words hit me hard. In there was my best friend lying on the floor dead. The body. Now I could call it that. Yesterday it was Bertha Mason, the woman that shared the same bed with me through two years of bliss as star crossed lovers. Bertha, the woman who said she’d give her right arm for me and did when she stopped a dagger thrust from a disgruntled Queen’s fusilier in the Owls Head tavern one drink sodden night.

Rochester didn’t say a word. He seemed strangely unemotional looking at the body of his dead wife. He let me uncover the body and feel the cold face. For the first time in my life I felt like crying. “Where did she get it, Rochester?”

“In the chest. Better not look at it. The killer carved the nipples off  and gave it to her hard.”

I threw back the sheet anyway and a curse caught in my throat. Bertha was in her nightshift, her one intact hand still clutching her disfigured breast in agony. The blade went in clean, but it carved out left a hole big enough to cram a fist into.

I had to find out who had killed her. Both her husband and the governess were my main suspects. Justice will be done. No matter who had to suffer. Someone would pay.