The ground floor of the library was bustling with activity but as I made my way up to the special collections the noise fell away and I felt myself relax. I presented the reference given to me by the museum librarian to the assistant on the desk, summarising my interest in Taylor’s perfume recipe. She listened, then disappeared into a back room. I felt self-conscious standing at the desk so took a seat at a large table. I’d barely sat down before a teenager came running in and hid beneath another table, in the corner. There were just the two of us, me sitting upright, him crouched low on the ground with his hoody pulled over his face. I waited, expecting something to happen, but it was as if we’d both been forgotten. The hands on the clock above the desk ticked, minutes passed, and just as I was about to break the silence and ask the teenager if he needed help, he scrambled out from his hiding place and quickly marched away. A moment later the assistant reappeared, an older man beside her. I guessed, from his reserved, rather intimidating manner, that he was a senior member of staff.

‘You’re interested in Māori perfume?’ he asked.

I nodded, and quickly repeated what I’d told the assistant. The senior librarian listened, then placed in front of me a photocopy of a newspaper article from the 1890s headed ‘Ancient Maori Perfumes’. It was an extract from Nature, written by missionary and naturalist William Colenso. Here were references to scented ferns, one, Hymenophyllum sanguinolentum, described as so powerful that its smell impregnated the papers on which it was dried. More trees and plants were listed, and as I read further I came across a description of the rituals associated with collecting gum from the taramea bush, which Colenso had seen growing high up in the Ruahine Ranges. At the end of the clipping was a short Māori lullaby containing the names of the plants piripiri, mokimoki, tāwhiri and taramea.

‘Interesting, isn’t it?’ said the librarian. ‘A bit more recent than your Taylor, though.’

I flicked back through the pages, reading again the descriptions of the scented plants.

‘Have you looked through any of the John White material?’ he asked.

I shook my head. I didn’t like to say that, unlike Colenso, I hadn’t heard of him.

‘Well, there’ll be quite a bit about plants in his Māori pharmacopoeia, if you get around to it. But here’s the Taylor notebook.’ He placed a bound volume on the desk, adding, ‘It’s a copy, not the original.’ And then, much to my surprise, he pulled up a chair and sat down beside me.

We scrolled through the pages of the manuscript together, pausing every now and again as we tried to decipher Taylor’s handwriting that, although neat, was difficult to read. The notes covered a broad range of topics, underlined headings that skipped between botany, birds and fishes, to Māori customs, language and proverbs. As we turned each page I realised I was becoming less and less comfortable with the material in front of me.